I wrote and mailed fourteen postcards today.
The last day in London. Better now than never, I guess. Also, the post office had no 54p stamps, so there were three stamps per card (48, 5, and 1p). And they were the lick kind - no sticker stamps here. Brittany helped affix them to the postcards.
Okay, so it was a little ridiculous.
Today was spent in Central London, mostly wandering around Charing Cross Road investigating second-hand bookstores. I had a chicken and veg pasty from the Cornwall Pasty Co. (Award Winning!). It was quite delicious.
I've been avoiding thinking things like "This is the last time I'll pass that rubbish bin" etc. For one, I don't actually feel sad about things like that. For another, empirically, it's woefully sentimental. I'm all for sentiment, but not over mundane things like that. Now, missing Chick Chicken and Doner Kebabs (which is actually called The Kebab House or something along those lines) will be entirely valid.
It's weird. I wish I felt like it was ending. I wish I felt some twinge of urgency - remember this! imprint these images on your brain! savor these sensations! - but it seems like any other day, and all I really feel is tiredness, to my bones.
So now, it's time to pack. I've been putting it off, but it's finally unavoidable. I just need to get into the mindset.
Put on some turbo-happy music to counteract the effects of dismantling my life here, eat a few truffles, and go.
Oh, on a side note, the public toilet outside my dorm caught fire this morning. No one was in it. There was a large fire truck parked next to it as it smoked. It was fantastically absurd.
That's all, my darlings. This is my last post from London. Expect one or two more, wrapping up this segment of life, looking at it as a whole, nostalgic and fuzzy. For now, it's too close, too immediate, for me to step back and make grand statements about it.
I wish that it weren't over.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Parties and Pi
My ears are ringing.
Tonight, we had our Christmas partay (also known as Brittany, Gonzo, and I dressing up and Nick only conceding to wear a tie), during which we listened to Christmas music and ate food.
We went to Club Sandwich (Goldsmiths' weekly disco). Well, Gonzo and Brittany twisted my arm into going. I didn't stay for long, but it was fun. Hits such as "Summer Lovin'" and "Say My Name" were played. It was pleasantly un-crowded and un-sticky, for the most part.
Three days. Well. Two real days, and then I'm taking off on Saturday morn, at seven of the ay-emm. Then it's Heathrow and a long flight, and hello Chicago. It's still surreal.
I feel like I'll be going home for a few weeks, maybe a month, and then I'll be coming back. I know that once I board the plane, I'm going to nonetheless feel comfortable knowing I'll see Brittany in a few hours, that I'll hang out with Nick and Gonzo later that evening.
But it isn't true.
I know I've been harping on about it for the past few posts. But I can't help it. Ah! Shake it off. I'm spoiling the moment, I know.
In other news, I've seen four plays in the last six days. Here's how it goes.
Friday: The Seagull.
Saturday: King Lear.
Monday: Othello.
Tuesday: Much Ado About Nothing.
And Thursday will be: Stephen Fry's Cinderella.
The Seagull and King Lear both starred Ian McKellen, and Othello's headliner was Ewan McGregor. They were astounding productions, all. Excellent. Much Ado was much needed after all those tragedies, in which, as Nick put it, "everyone dies and most of them don't deserve it." For all of them, we got up early to stand in line for the day tickets. Mostly we arrived around 6:30am and waited around until 10:00 when the tickets went up. For Othello, we took the 4:57 night bus and arrived at half five. We were second in line. But we got three of the ten seats. Day seats (tickets sold the morning of the performance) are heavily reduced in cost and hugely popular, by the way.
The moral of the story is: getting up super early for good tickets is worth it, but wear as many layers as possible. We ended up bringing laptops to watch movies during the wait. Most excellent.
On Sunday, Brittany, Nick, and I went on a tour to Windsor Castle, Stonehenge, and Bath. It was cold and rainy, but still pretty fun. Our tour guide's name was Tony, and he had the best jacket ever - stripes of green, purple, and orange, but from any distance greater than one foot, it looked like a normal, sedate, business-like grey. Simply amazing.
I'd been to Windsor before, but never inside. I can't get over the sheer opulence of the place. I mean, I know it's the Queen's preferred residence, but really. I mean, who needs twenty complete sets of hand-painted china? What is the point of living somewhere where you actually only live in a fraction (where the top number is one and the bottom number is considerably larger) of it? It was ... pretty, in an ostentatious sort of way. But I can't get over the blatant wastefulness of it. Aren't we past that? The whole, look how rich I am, I can afford to paper my walls with damask silk, nyer nyer nyer.
I think it's clear that I'm cut out for the working class.
Stonehenge was ... a semicircular pile or large rocks. No, it was cool, really. It would have been nice to have been able to explore the stones, but we were kept to the footpaths around it - no touching. The rain let up at the point, but it was incredibly windy on that flat field. Stonehenge is impressive, to be sure, but it's an image I was so acquainted with that it really wasn't much more exciting than seeing a picture of it in a textbook. I'll have to come back and beg them to let me stand in the middle of the stones on Midsummer morning, to watch the sun rise over the heelstone.
In Bath, we saw, surprise surprise, the ruins of a Roman bath. It's spring-fed, and hot. There's still water in them, and you can see the water bubbling up all green and murky from the original spring.
So. In the two days I have left, I'm going to see a play, shopping for Christmas gifts, and packing. Oh, man. Packing. That'll be fun. And by fun I mean really depressing.
But, I guess it has an allure. It's sort of like packing a backpack - there's a joy in it. Can I fit everything? It's a science. You know, like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. It's kind of mindless, but in a soothing way.
I'm gonna need soothing.
So these days are winding up. I'd say I can't believe it's gone by so quickly, but I can. Twelve weeks. That's nothing. So much has happened, and yet I feel like I've barely scratched the surface of London. Although, Chick Chicken is a delight few experience, I think.
I know that one of my hopes in coming here, without Coe or the ACM, has been accomplished. I'm more independent than I was. Wandering around London by myself? Pish. No problem. Navigating the Tube on my own? Don't make me laugh. So. Be more independent? Check that one off the list.
And now: gratuitous Stonehenge pictures.
Tonight, we had our Christmas partay (also known as Brittany, Gonzo, and I dressing up and Nick only conceding to wear a tie), during which we listened to Christmas music and ate food.
We went to Club Sandwich (Goldsmiths' weekly disco). Well, Gonzo and Brittany twisted my arm into going. I didn't stay for long, but it was fun. Hits such as "Summer Lovin'" and "Say My Name" were played. It was pleasantly un-crowded and un-sticky, for the most part.
Three days. Well. Two real days, and then I'm taking off on Saturday morn, at seven of the ay-emm. Then it's Heathrow and a long flight, and hello Chicago. It's still surreal.
I feel like I'll be going home for a few weeks, maybe a month, and then I'll be coming back. I know that once I board the plane, I'm going to nonetheless feel comfortable knowing I'll see Brittany in a few hours, that I'll hang out with Nick and Gonzo later that evening.
But it isn't true.
I know I've been harping on about it for the past few posts. But I can't help it. Ah! Shake it off. I'm spoiling the moment, I know.
In other news, I've seen four plays in the last six days. Here's how it goes.
Friday: The Seagull.
Saturday: King Lear.
Monday: Othello.
Tuesday: Much Ado About Nothing.
And Thursday will be: Stephen Fry's Cinderella.
The Seagull and King Lear both starred Ian McKellen, and Othello's headliner was Ewan McGregor. They were astounding productions, all. Excellent. Much Ado was much needed after all those tragedies, in which, as Nick put it, "everyone dies and most of them don't deserve it." For all of them, we got up early to stand in line for the day tickets. Mostly we arrived around 6:30am and waited around until 10:00 when the tickets went up. For Othello, we took the 4:57 night bus and arrived at half five. We were second in line. But we got three of the ten seats. Day seats (tickets sold the morning of the performance) are heavily reduced in cost and hugely popular, by the way.
The moral of the story is: getting up super early for good tickets is worth it, but wear as many layers as possible. We ended up bringing laptops to watch movies during the wait. Most excellent.
On Sunday, Brittany, Nick, and I went on a tour to Windsor Castle, Stonehenge, and Bath. It was cold and rainy, but still pretty fun. Our tour guide's name was Tony, and he had the best jacket ever - stripes of green, purple, and orange, but from any distance greater than one foot, it looked like a normal, sedate, business-like grey. Simply amazing.
I'd been to Windsor before, but never inside. I can't get over the sheer opulence of the place. I mean, I know it's the Queen's preferred residence, but really. I mean, who needs twenty complete sets of hand-painted china? What is the point of living somewhere where you actually only live in a fraction (where the top number is one and the bottom number is considerably larger) of it? It was ... pretty, in an ostentatious sort of way. But I can't get over the blatant wastefulness of it. Aren't we past that? The whole, look how rich I am, I can afford to paper my walls with damask silk, nyer nyer nyer.
I think it's clear that I'm cut out for the working class.
Stonehenge was ... a semicircular pile or large rocks. No, it was cool, really. It would have been nice to have been able to explore the stones, but we were kept to the footpaths around it - no touching. The rain let up at the point, but it was incredibly windy on that flat field. Stonehenge is impressive, to be sure, but it's an image I was so acquainted with that it really wasn't much more exciting than seeing a picture of it in a textbook. I'll have to come back and beg them to let me stand in the middle of the stones on Midsummer morning, to watch the sun rise over the heelstone.
In Bath, we saw, surprise surprise, the ruins of a Roman bath. It's spring-fed, and hot. There's still water in them, and you can see the water bubbling up all green and murky from the original spring.
So. In the two days I have left, I'm going to see a play, shopping for Christmas gifts, and packing. Oh, man. Packing. That'll be fun. And by fun I mean really depressing.
But, I guess it has an allure. It's sort of like packing a backpack - there's a joy in it. Can I fit everything? It's a science. You know, like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. It's kind of mindless, but in a soothing way.
I'm gonna need soothing.
So these days are winding up. I'd say I can't believe it's gone by so quickly, but I can. Twelve weeks. That's nothing. So much has happened, and yet I feel like I've barely scratched the surface of London. Although, Chick Chicken is a delight few experience, I think.
I know that one of my hopes in coming here, without Coe or the ACM, has been accomplished. I'm more independent than I was. Wandering around London by myself? Pish. No problem. Navigating the Tube on my own? Don't make me laugh. So. Be more independent? Check that one off the list.
And now: gratuitous Stonehenge pictures.
Friday, December 7, 2007
And the end is now in sight
And it's still breaking my heart.
But now, with the end of essays and portfolios also in sight, we've been gearing up for a kickin' last week in London. On the agenda: several plays (as in, four in five days), a farewell Christmas party (formal dress encouraged), one last meal at the Princess Victoria (which was our first London pub).
Tonight, Nick, Brittany, and I listened to Bing Crosby (and smatterings of the Anderson Sisters and one sad and lonely Frank Sinatra) sing Christmas carols while we cut out snowflakes and hung them from Brittany's ceiling.
(photos by Brittany Jackson and Gonzalo Tuesta)
It's quite pretty, actually. We're trying not to think about the moment when we'll have to take them down. Putting away Christmas decorations is surprisingly disheartening.
Tomorrow: I may or may not get up at 5.45am in order to get tickets for a play ... Also printing out and turning in my Music as a Communcation and Creative Practice essay (monstrous relief), and booking tickets for a tour of Bath and Stonehenge for this Sunday. Excellent, well.
An incomplete list of (intangible) things to bring home:
- The Double Jinx
- "Exce," "hip hip," "obvs"
- The awkward noise, the surly duck noise
It's probably apparent from the disordered and disjointed nature of this post that I'm rather tired. I hope you'll forgive me. Making paper snowflakes for two hours really takes it outta a girl.
Oh, also to do this week: actually send you folks postcards/letters. It'll happen. Last chance, right?
In the meantime, catch a few snowflakes (the kind that melt) and drink some hot chocolate for me, yeah? Wrap a few presents with the most ostentatious paper you can find. Actually kiss somebody under the mistletoe. Disguise a good gift as socks (not the other way around). Sing a few carols in public. Hang up as many lights as your circuit breaker can handle.
I'm in love with Christmastime.
But now, with the end of essays and portfolios also in sight, we've been gearing up for a kickin' last week in London. On the agenda: several plays (as in, four in five days), a farewell Christmas party (formal dress encouraged), one last meal at the Princess Victoria (which was our first London pub).
Tonight, Nick, Brittany, and I listened to Bing Crosby (and smatterings of the Anderson Sisters and one sad and lonely Frank Sinatra) sing Christmas carols while we cut out snowflakes and hung them from Brittany's ceiling.
(photos by Brittany Jackson and Gonzalo Tuesta)
It's quite pretty, actually. We're trying not to think about the moment when we'll have to take them down. Putting away Christmas decorations is surprisingly disheartening.
Tomorrow: I may or may not get up at 5.45am in order to get tickets for a play ... Also printing out and turning in my Music as a Communcation and Creative Practice essay (monstrous relief), and booking tickets for a tour of Bath and Stonehenge for this Sunday. Excellent, well.
An incomplete list of (intangible) things to bring home:
- The Double Jinx
- "Exce," "hip hip," "obvs"
- The awkward noise, the surly duck noise
It's probably apparent from the disordered and disjointed nature of this post that I'm rather tired. I hope you'll forgive me. Making paper snowflakes for two hours really takes it outta a girl.
Oh, also to do this week: actually send you folks postcards/letters. It'll happen. Last chance, right?
In the meantime, catch a few snowflakes (the kind that melt) and drink some hot chocolate for me, yeah? Wrap a few presents with the most ostentatious paper you can find. Actually kiss somebody under the mistletoe. Disguise a good gift as socks (not the other way around). Sing a few carols in public. Hang up as many lights as your circuit breaker can handle.
I'm in love with Christmastime.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Inevitabilities
It's already getting to be time to start thinking about Coe and home in practical terms. I have to start thinking about where I'm going to live, if I'll have a single or a double. Hours I want to work in the Writing Center. I've been offered a job teaching ballet to first graders in Cedar Rapids. I don't know if I'm going to take it - it's been so long since I've been immersed in that world. Even the language has gotten away from me. Plie. Jete. Pirouette. Arabesque. Tourjette. Glissade. Words that sound like cream puffs and expensive pastries. It's the first time I've been confronted with anything that even remotely resembles real life. It's a reminder of things I'll have to think about when I get back, when I return from this term abroad.
I have to think about things I'm going to do when I get home. It's weird picturing myself moving through my house, actually sitting at the piano bench with it's rough, waffle-weave upholstery. Actually eating at a table. Actually lying in my bed with the mobile on my ceiling spinning slowly overhead.
I'm glad to be coming home for the Christmas season. If I'd have come back in time for summer, I think I couldn't do it. I think it would be too hard to leave behind the friends I've made, to leave the city, to sink back into a strangely unfamiliar life. But coming home for Christmas, to crass commercialism, to a treeful of ornaments, to Bing Crosby on the radio, to hellish Christmas shopping, I have something comfortable and familiar and immediately nostalgic to wrap myself in. Christmas doesn't change much from year to year. And there will be the seventh annual Caroling for Cans, the traditional New Year's Eve party, to look forward to.
My friends and I went ice skating at Somerset House. It'd been raining, and was raining when we were walking to Somerset House, actually. But once we got there, even though it was still dark and cloudy, it had let up. It was only 4:00, but it was so dark that it felt like 7:00 - the sun sets at 3:30 around here. The ice was really slick because of the rain, and I fell down twice, once within two seconds of getting on the ice. Really graceful, I know. I got the hang of it again pretty quickly, though the lights around the rink kept changing color. It was very pretty, but a little disconcerting - sometimes the ice was lit by plain white lights, and then everything would go rosy, then purple, and then blue. I was fine except when the lights were blue - it made me feel like I was going to fall over.
It was all very picturesque and lovely, string lights shining and a large tree decked out in glittering snowflakes and garlands. There were one or two guys there who kept zooming around, clearly showing off, as though being a jerk was a good way to get a girl or something. Other than that, it was nice seeing people slowly gliding along, and the few small, almost obnoxious kids who kept falling over. I want to go ice skating when I get home. It's so much fun! But it has to be outdoors - indoor rinks like Rinkside just don't cut it. You've got to be cold and red-cheeked and damp and bruised all over and ready for hot chocolate when you're done skating, otherwise you've missed something.
(photos by Brittany Jackson)
Things around here are wrapping up, too. My essays are nearing completion, responsibilities are lifting one by one, while yet others of another breed are descending. I'm suddenly having to think about what I'm going to leave behind, about fitting things into suitcases, figuring out when to leave for Heathrow. It's disheartening. I have two weeks left. It's like a whisper that won't stop. We have two weeks left. Two weeks.
It's a little heartbreaking. It's ridiculous. The friends I've made here - it's weird when I don't see them for more than a day. I can get lonely if I'm online and they aren't, even though they're a hallway or courtyard away.
I've spent basically every day of the last three months with them, with Brittany and Nick and Gonzo. It'll be a really strange gap in my life to not have them constantly around - I still can't really get my head around it, the realization that I won't just walk next door to watch a movie with the three of them every night. That we won't walk to the New Cross Gate station, or Chick Chicken, or go for chips with burger sauce again. We won't squash onto a crowded train at the Canada Water station or dash up an elevator at Waterloo. I know I'm being sentimental. But you can't paint someone's face green, you can't have a slumber party with dark chocolate and McVities, you can't dash screeching and laughing breathlessly through torrential rain, without letting yourself become attached. There have been picnics, and parks, and impromptu photoshoots. We've gotten up before dawn to try for theatre tickets, laughed far into the night together, spent the hours between times exploring the city, seeing shows, cooking and eating together. It's started to feel normal. It's starting to feel like this is how it goes.
I'm trying to console myself with things I'll have to look forward to at home. Christmas and New Year's, as mentioned above. Friends. Family. Playing Scrabble or putting together a puzzle by the light of the Christmas tree. Borders. Getting my license (which I'm resolved to do - enough is enough). Having a fully stocked kitchen at my disposal. Having my sewing machine. My piano. My guitar. Apple cider. And eggnog. I'm really looking forward to eggnog. Oooh, and ice cubes, in vast amounts, readily available. I missed ice. I'll be visiting Jenna, and Heather might come to visit me. Going to Panera with Marie. Working out at Curves. Snow. Winter in the Midwest. All good, all things I'm excited for, all things that I've missed.
So why, then, this weight in the middle of my ribcage? It's like there's salt water in the bottom of my lungs.
So savor the time left. I keep shaking my head, throwing my hair out of my eyes. Don't sully today with inevitabilities. The sun is out. There's time yet. Make the most of what you've got.
I have to think about things I'm going to do when I get home. It's weird picturing myself moving through my house, actually sitting at the piano bench with it's rough, waffle-weave upholstery. Actually eating at a table. Actually lying in my bed with the mobile on my ceiling spinning slowly overhead.
I'm glad to be coming home for the Christmas season. If I'd have come back in time for summer, I think I couldn't do it. I think it would be too hard to leave behind the friends I've made, to leave the city, to sink back into a strangely unfamiliar life. But coming home for Christmas, to crass commercialism, to a treeful of ornaments, to Bing Crosby on the radio, to hellish Christmas shopping, I have something comfortable and familiar and immediately nostalgic to wrap myself in. Christmas doesn't change much from year to year. And there will be the seventh annual Caroling for Cans, the traditional New Year's Eve party, to look forward to.
My friends and I went ice skating at Somerset House. It'd been raining, and was raining when we were walking to Somerset House, actually. But once we got there, even though it was still dark and cloudy, it had let up. It was only 4:00, but it was so dark that it felt like 7:00 - the sun sets at 3:30 around here. The ice was really slick because of the rain, and I fell down twice, once within two seconds of getting on the ice. Really graceful, I know. I got the hang of it again pretty quickly, though the lights around the rink kept changing color. It was very pretty, but a little disconcerting - sometimes the ice was lit by plain white lights, and then everything would go rosy, then purple, and then blue. I was fine except when the lights were blue - it made me feel like I was going to fall over.
It was all very picturesque and lovely, string lights shining and a large tree decked out in glittering snowflakes and garlands. There were one or two guys there who kept zooming around, clearly showing off, as though being a jerk was a good way to get a girl or something. Other than that, it was nice seeing people slowly gliding along, and the few small, almost obnoxious kids who kept falling over. I want to go ice skating when I get home. It's so much fun! But it has to be outdoors - indoor rinks like Rinkside just don't cut it. You've got to be cold and red-cheeked and damp and bruised all over and ready for hot chocolate when you're done skating, otherwise you've missed something.
(photos by Brittany Jackson)Things around here are wrapping up, too. My essays are nearing completion, responsibilities are lifting one by one, while yet others of another breed are descending. I'm suddenly having to think about what I'm going to leave behind, about fitting things into suitcases, figuring out when to leave for Heathrow. It's disheartening. I have two weeks left. It's like a whisper that won't stop. We have two weeks left. Two weeks.
It's a little heartbreaking. It's ridiculous. The friends I've made here - it's weird when I don't see them for more than a day. I can get lonely if I'm online and they aren't, even though they're a hallway or courtyard away.
I've spent basically every day of the last three months with them, with Brittany and Nick and Gonzo. It'll be a really strange gap in my life to not have them constantly around - I still can't really get my head around it, the realization that I won't just walk next door to watch a movie with the three of them every night. That we won't walk to the New Cross Gate station, or Chick Chicken, or go for chips with burger sauce again. We won't squash onto a crowded train at the Canada Water station or dash up an elevator at Waterloo. I know I'm being sentimental. But you can't paint someone's face green, you can't have a slumber party with dark chocolate and McVities, you can't dash screeching and laughing breathlessly through torrential rain, without letting yourself become attached. There have been picnics, and parks, and impromptu photoshoots. We've gotten up before dawn to try for theatre tickets, laughed far into the night together, spent the hours between times exploring the city, seeing shows, cooking and eating together. It's started to feel normal. It's starting to feel like this is how it goes.
I'm trying to console myself with things I'll have to look forward to at home. Christmas and New Year's, as mentioned above. Friends. Family. Playing Scrabble or putting together a puzzle by the light of the Christmas tree. Borders. Getting my license (which I'm resolved to do - enough is enough). Having a fully stocked kitchen at my disposal. Having my sewing machine. My piano. My guitar. Apple cider. And eggnog. I'm really looking forward to eggnog. Oooh, and ice cubes, in vast amounts, readily available. I missed ice. I'll be visiting Jenna, and Heather might come to visit me. Going to Panera with Marie. Working out at Curves. Snow. Winter in the Midwest. All good, all things I'm excited for, all things that I've missed.
So why, then, this weight in the middle of my ribcage? It's like there's salt water in the bottom of my lungs.
So savor the time left. I keep shaking my head, throwing my hair out of my eyes. Don't sully today with inevitabilities. The sun is out. There's time yet. Make the most of what you've got.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Food
Sorry about the long silence. It's been a busy couple of weeks.
Meghan and Becky arrived one fine Saturday, and I met them at Heathrow in the wee hours of the morn. It was wonderful having them here, and also a little strange. London along with bits of home all at once.
What did we do? There was such a lot packed into that week. Well, when I took them on their very first ride on the Tube, they thought the train was insulting them as it said, "This train is for Cockfosters." We went to Abbey Road, museums (the Natural History Museum for the third time for me, and it was still just as exciting), shows, Primark, and just wandered around.
They also saw the touristy stuff - Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London (where Becky got to see where lots of people were killed). They went on a Jack the Ripper tour, and we saw the Sherlock Holmes museum.
And, of course, there was Thanksgiving. Which was ... a triumphant success! We made a turkey. Well, actually, we couldn't find a whole turkey, so we bought turkey breast (still on the bones) and two turkey legs, and made that instead. It still looked like a whole turkey.
The night before, we'd ripped up two loafs of bread (the real stuff, quality french bread with a golden crust) and dried it out. On Thanksgiving, we sauteed (according to Meghan's dad's instructions) an onion, some garlic, and some celery, mixed it up with the dry bread, sprinkled on some rosemary, and doused it in butter. We hid it under the turkey breast, as there wasn't really an inside into which to stuff it.
Nicholas and I constructed a roasting pan out of ridiculous amounts of tin foil. The turkey bits were then marinated in oil, butter, salt, and pepper. We stuck it in the oven and drenched it with butter every fifteen minutes.
Meghan made her famous truffles (and we had dark chocolate to spare ... never a bad thing), which we attacked.
We had a magnificent spread. Two kinds of sparkling juice (including white grape with pomegranate and rose), crescent rolls (made by Brittany), sweet potato fries (made by Nicholas), steamed green beans, real mashed potatoes, a salad (made of not-iceberg lettuce), turkey and stuffing of course (which were ridiculously tasty and made us feel proud and capable), and even cranberry sauce.
Luke (one of Brittany's English flatmates) joined us for dinner. It was his first Thanksgiving, and we had fun explaining the origin of the holiday. "The natives taught the colonists to grow corn and survive, and Thanksgiving marks the cooperation between the two cultures. And then there was the genocide and we gave them all syphilis. Happy Thanksgiving!" He managed three servings of everything, putting all of us seasoned Thanksgivingers to shame.
On a slightly unrelated note, I figured out the topic for my senior thesis: food. Cooking, eating, meals with family, eating out, foreign food, vegetarianism, comfort food, grocery shopping, eating disorders, fad diets ... the possibilities are endless! And we're not talking some dry academic treatise. No, no, my friends. This will be creative non-fiction! Narrative prose recounting my personal experiences with food! Which ... actually ... is probably not going to be that exciting. But I was excited. I have a topic!
This year's Thanksgiving will almost certainly be the basis for one of my essays. As will, perhaps, the next story I'll relate:
Yesterday (this being after Becky and Meghan had departed for windy Chicago), Brittany, Brynn, and Gonzo decided to have a picnic. So we grabbed a blanket and all the Thanksgiving leftovers and proceeded to set up camp in the middle of the courtyard. People thought we were crazy. We yelled at Nick to join us. So we sat there in the cold weather, eating McVities with Nutella (a stroke of genius on the part of Brittany).
And now, the long haul to the end of the grading period. Two academic essays to finish and a couple hundred more words for creative writing portfolios.
Deep breath. Ready, set, go.
Meghan and Becky arrived one fine Saturday, and I met them at Heathrow in the wee hours of the morn. It was wonderful having them here, and also a little strange. London along with bits of home all at once.
What did we do? There was such a lot packed into that week. Well, when I took them on their very first ride on the Tube, they thought the train was insulting them as it said, "This train is for Cockfosters." We went to Abbey Road, museums (the Natural History Museum for the third time for me, and it was still just as exciting), shows, Primark, and just wandered around.
They also saw the touristy stuff - Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London (where Becky got to see where lots of people were killed). They went on a Jack the Ripper tour, and we saw the Sherlock Holmes museum.And, of course, there was Thanksgiving. Which was ... a triumphant success! We made a turkey. Well, actually, we couldn't find a whole turkey, so we bought turkey breast (still on the bones) and two turkey legs, and made that instead. It still looked like a whole turkey.
The night before, we'd ripped up two loafs of bread (the real stuff, quality french bread with a golden crust) and dried it out. On Thanksgiving, we sauteed (according to Meghan's dad's instructions) an onion, some garlic, and some celery, mixed it up with the dry bread, sprinkled on some rosemary, and doused it in butter. We hid it under the turkey breast, as there wasn't really an inside into which to stuff it.
Nicholas and I constructed a roasting pan out of ridiculous amounts of tin foil. The turkey bits were then marinated in oil, butter, salt, and pepper. We stuck it in the oven and drenched it with butter every fifteen minutes.
Meghan made her famous truffles (and we had dark chocolate to spare ... never a bad thing), which we attacked.
We had a magnificent spread. Two kinds of sparkling juice (including white grape with pomegranate and rose), crescent rolls (made by Brittany), sweet potato fries (made by Nicholas), steamed green beans, real mashed potatoes, a salad (made of not-iceberg lettuce), turkey and stuffing of course (which were ridiculously tasty and made us feel proud and capable), and even cranberry sauce.Luke (one of Brittany's English flatmates) joined us for dinner. It was his first Thanksgiving, and we had fun explaining the origin of the holiday. "The natives taught the colonists to grow corn and survive, and Thanksgiving marks the cooperation between the two cultures. And then there was the genocide and we gave them all syphilis. Happy Thanksgiving!" He managed three servings of everything, putting all of us seasoned Thanksgivingers to shame.
On a slightly unrelated note, I figured out the topic for my senior thesis: food. Cooking, eating, meals with family, eating out, foreign food, vegetarianism, comfort food, grocery shopping, eating disorders, fad diets ... the possibilities are endless! And we're not talking some dry academic treatise. No, no, my friends. This will be creative non-fiction! Narrative prose recounting my personal experiences with food! Which ... actually ... is probably not going to be that exciting. But I was excited. I have a topic!
This year's Thanksgiving will almost certainly be the basis for one of my essays. As will, perhaps, the next story I'll relate:
Yesterday (this being after Becky and Meghan had departed for windy Chicago), Brittany, Brynn, and Gonzo decided to have a picnic. So we grabbed a blanket and all the Thanksgiving leftovers and proceeded to set up camp in the middle of the courtyard. People thought we were crazy. We yelled at Nick to join us. So we sat there in the cold weather, eating McVities with Nutella (a stroke of genius on the part of Brittany).
And now, the long haul to the end of the grading period. Two academic essays to finish and a couple hundred more words for creative writing portfolios.
Deep breath. Ready, set, go.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Things I've learned this week
- The Natural History Museum is just as cool the second time around.
- All art should be backed by rich old people so it can be viewed by the public for free.
- People in the seventeen- and eighteen-hundreds had weird taste in home wall decor (personally, I'd rather not hang a 12'x20' oil painting of God's flooding of the earth over the fireplace if it's all the same to you, thanks).
- You can use regular photographs as postcards.
- Delays on the Tube are no fun.
- When on the phone and spelling something for someone, choose serious words when clarifying a letter; N as in November, P as in Parliament, F as in Fahrenheit. Not, in any circumstance, L as in Lolly.
- Even though laughter exacerbates a sore throat, it is still worth it.
- Sainsbury's sells crusty delicious french bread for a pound nine.
- Torrential downpours happen everywhere and, though you do get wetter by running than by walking in the rain, it is more fun to screech and holler as you dash for cover with friends through the thick, fast drops.
- Apples to Apples, while undeniably a wonderful game, is made eight times funnier when you write the adjectives and nouns yourself.
Despite having no classes (it's Reading Week), it's been quite educational.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Teapots, goodbyes, and tulips
It was sad to see my parents go home. It was fun having them around. I'm glad they decided to come. We ate at a lot of pubs. I mean, a lot of pubs. It was delicious. We walked around a lot; I saw some more of London. On Friday, we managed to get the wrong theatre (we went to the Lyric Apollo, instead of the Apollo Victoria), but it was all right, because we had two hours to spare. So they got to see the main theatre district, which we otherwise would have missed. On Saturday we wandered around Greenwich, which was fun. It was a beautiful day out. All in all, a really nice week.
But, I did come down with some sort of sinus infection. Last night I was convinced it was meningitis, because my neck was rather sore, and I gave myself a panic attack and spent the evening trying not to throw up. Fun stuff. So today I stocked up on chicken noodle soup, veggie broth, and barley soup. I also finally bought a teapot. I bought some tea a while ago, but they weren't single serving bags like I thought, and make an entire potful of tea. So now I can actually make it.
Hence, right now I'm drinking tea with sugar and milk in, and eating gingerbread cookies, and a white tulip in a green bottle sitting on my windowsill with sunlight and a light breeze coming in. It's very picturesque.
The tulip is my favorite part. There's a guy who sells flowers out of an alley next to the pub near my school. It's not a scary alley, not one of those dark and drippy ones where you get mugged. It's cheerful and strange, this little space of green and blooms and little terracotta pots, right next to a streetful of angry car horns and urgent police sirens. There was a big crate full of white tulips, and a hand-lettered sign that read "A bunch for One Pound."
I asked the man how much for only one. When he looked askance at me, I explained that my vase only had room for one flower, and said I'd pay the one pound for only one bloom.
"Just one tulip?" he asked. I nodded. He walked over to the crate and selected one. When he handed it to me, I tried to give him the money, but he waved it away. I thanked him and he smiled. It made my day.
This week is reading week, so there are no classes (except my evening writing classes, which I'm okay with). I'm going to catch up on readings, start my essays, sleep, recover, and watch a lot of movies. And, of course, drink absurd amounts of tea.
p.s. Jenna - I saw a lot of secondhand, beat up Penguin classics, and I was tempted to buy one to carry around in my back pocket. But I didn't. Mostly because the ones I saw didn't pique my interest. But ... the next time I find an interesting one, I may just have to succumb. Goodbye mellow England louvin'.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Mis padres and garbage bag bats
My parents are visiting this week! They arrived on Saturday last, and I, like a dutiful daughter, met them at Heathrow at 8am - and the Tube ride there takes about two hours. That's what I call responsibility.
Tomorrow night, we're going to go see a show. This past week, we've gone to Covent Garden, taken a boat ride on the Thames, browsed Oxford Street, and eaten at a lot of pubs.
It's been a pretty full week.
Strangely enough, I've been thinking about things I'll be doing once I get home. It's not that I don't want to be here. I'll be quite loathe to leave the city. But ... at home, there's the holiday season waiting. There's Caroling for Cans 2007 and the annual New Year's party (this year's theme is a masquerade ball). There's my friends, and my sewing machine, and my piano (!), and mom-cooked meals.
You don't really realize how easy a fully-equipped kitchen makes things until you've got a frying pan and one bowl to work with. No cupcake or loaf pans, no blender, no ice (except in ice cube trays ... inadequate), no toaster oven, no crock pot! It's debilitating. I'm going to cook a lot over Christmas.
I'm getting hugely excited for Becky and Meghan to visit. I think once my parents take their leave back to the US of A, I'll miss home a little bit more. You know. It's like when you're hungry, and nibbling on something only makes you hungrier? So it'll be good to have Becky and Meg here so soon. I miss everyone something dreadful!
I realize that this entry isn't up to my usual writing par. I think I'm trying to get into the bland, brief, postcard-writing mindset. I've been extremely lax in my off-line communication; apologies. Hopefully I will write some letters and postcards this weekend ... ? Hopefully.
Here's an interesting fact: Apparently in London, people don't dress up and go out to party it up on Halloween. They do it the day before, on the 30th. Which would make sense if the 30th were a Saturday. But this year it was on Tuesday. So I'm not quite certain as to the logic behind this. However, they do also dress up on the 31st, and, apparently, the 1st. I think the Halloween thing acts as an excuse to be as festive as possible, for as long as possible. It's like the way we Americans are with Christmas. You know. Holly and tinsel up in stores in mid-October.
My American friends and I didn't join in the Tuesday night festivities, to the mild consternation of our flatmates. We did, however, dress up last night.
Brittany was a witch, Gonzo a pirate, Nick as a low-key version of Larry the Monster, and myself as a bat, with wings and ears hastily cut out of black garbage bags.
Pretty much, we hung out in Brittany's room with our costumes and listened to her "Dance Party Goodness" mix and danced around a little bit. Then we watched The Wicker Man, which is a very strangely and quietly disturbing movie. Also, Christopher Lee's voice was about five octaves higher back then.
Tomorrow: Class, going to Sainsbury's for to buy the post-Halloween bargain candy, hanging out with mis padres, and then seeing a musical. Should be a good start to the weekend.
Tomorrow night, we're going to go see a show. This past week, we've gone to Covent Garden, taken a boat ride on the Thames, browsed Oxford Street, and eaten at a lot of pubs.
It's been a pretty full week.
Strangely enough, I've been thinking about things I'll be doing once I get home. It's not that I don't want to be here. I'll be quite loathe to leave the city. But ... at home, there's the holiday season waiting. There's Caroling for Cans 2007 and the annual New Year's party (this year's theme is a masquerade ball). There's my friends, and my sewing machine, and my piano (!), and mom-cooked meals.
You don't really realize how easy a fully-equipped kitchen makes things until you've got a frying pan and one bowl to work with. No cupcake or loaf pans, no blender, no ice (except in ice cube trays ... inadequate), no toaster oven, no crock pot! It's debilitating. I'm going to cook a lot over Christmas.
I'm getting hugely excited for Becky and Meghan to visit. I think once my parents take their leave back to the US of A, I'll miss home a little bit more. You know. It's like when you're hungry, and nibbling on something only makes you hungrier? So it'll be good to have Becky and Meg here so soon. I miss everyone something dreadful!
I realize that this entry isn't up to my usual writing par. I think I'm trying to get into the bland, brief, postcard-writing mindset. I've been extremely lax in my off-line communication; apologies. Hopefully I will write some letters and postcards this weekend ... ? Hopefully.
Here's an interesting fact: Apparently in London, people don't dress up and go out to party it up on Halloween. They do it the day before, on the 30th. Which would make sense if the 30th were a Saturday. But this year it was on Tuesday. So I'm not quite certain as to the logic behind this. However, they do also dress up on the 31st, and, apparently, the 1st. I think the Halloween thing acts as an excuse to be as festive as possible, for as long as possible. It's like the way we Americans are with Christmas. You know. Holly and tinsel up in stores in mid-October.
My American friends and I didn't join in the Tuesday night festivities, to the mild consternation of our flatmates. We did, however, dress up last night.
Brittany was a witch, Gonzo a pirate, Nick as a low-key version of Larry the Monster, and myself as a bat, with wings and ears hastily cut out of black garbage bags.
Pretty much, we hung out in Brittany's room with our costumes and listened to her "Dance Party Goodness" mix and danced around a little bit. Then we watched The Wicker Man, which is a very strangely and quietly disturbing movie. Also, Christopher Lee's voice was about five octaves higher back then.
Tomorrow: Class, going to Sainsbury's for to buy the post-Halloween bargain candy, hanging out with mis padres, and then seeing a musical. Should be a good start to the weekend.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Rhinoceri and JoJo
In the hour I have between my lecture and my seminar, I thought I'd update.
A few days ago (or was it longer? The days are blurring together), my friends and I went to see a play at the Royal Court Theatre. It's called Rhinoceros, written by Eugene Ionesco and translated to English by Martin Crimp.
It's an absurdist play, pretty surreal. A rhinoceros charges through a town, and one by one, the inhabitants turn into rhinos, until there's only one man left.
It's this cruel and witty and painful and absolutely beautiful commentary on the nature of conformity and individualism, and the consequences of both. It's magical realism, which I know is not everyone's cup of tea, but in this case, it worked. The absurdity and surrealism opens the door to deep and raw reactions. Because the events are so outrageous, it allows outrageous and visceral emotion and thoughts. It's such a strange play, both extravagant and spare all at once, and endlessly breathtaking - you gasp and ache.
The actual staging of the play was brilliant. It was pretty elaborate, in terms of mechanics, although the aesthetics of the set was nicely spare. Uncluttered.
And the best part, the best part was that it was only ten pounds to see the show.
The worst part, unfortunately, was that people don't know how to behave at theatre performances, apparently. The couple to our left was eating oranges, dropping the peels on the floor. The couple to our right kept hissing to each other, "What did she say? Did you catch that? I don't know what's going on." The girl just behind us kept snapping pictures (something any idiot with half a brain knows not to do, and is illegal to boot). And a woman down in front kept talking through the show and laughing at inappropriate moments. I mean, the play is satirical, it has it's humorous parts. But, at the end, in the very definitely not funny and rather horrible last scene, she laughed as the lights went down. The lead actor was clearly not pleased during the bows. None of us were.
The funny thing is, with the exception of the obnoxious, laughing woman, I was completely unaware of all of this until the lights went up and my friends indignantly complained about it to one another. I was too busy being absorbed in the show.
The Swing Dance Society finally had it's first meeting on Monday night. I was the first one there, being, as usual, rather nerdy. Then a few more people trickled in, then a few more, and then the instructor showed up. She's younger than I'd imagined, with artsy and ridiculous eyeshadow (blue and silver, with eyeliner drawn out in swoops like a spiky Chinese calligraphy letter on crack) and pinstriped pants.
There were about twenty girls and two guys present, but that wasn't a problem, because the instructor (JoJo, as she told us to call her) simply split the room in half and deemed one side leaders and the other followers.
I was surprised to find that I was one of the only ones there who had any previous swing experience. So it was slow going for a while, and JoJo proved to be an excellent dancer and a mediocre teacher – she'd get excited and ahead of herself, and used vague, half-articulated phrases to describe moves, and glossed over basics and tended to jump around, going off on tangents and forgetting what she was originally supposed to be explaining. It was, however, sweaty and fun and got the blood pumping. Next week should be fun.
A few days ago (or was it longer? The days are blurring together), my friends and I went to see a play at the Royal Court Theatre. It's called Rhinoceros, written by Eugene Ionesco and translated to English by Martin Crimp.
It's an absurdist play, pretty surreal. A rhinoceros charges through a town, and one by one, the inhabitants turn into rhinos, until there's only one man left.It's this cruel and witty and painful and absolutely beautiful commentary on the nature of conformity and individualism, and the consequences of both. It's magical realism, which I know is not everyone's cup of tea, but in this case, it worked. The absurdity and surrealism opens the door to deep and raw reactions. Because the events are so outrageous, it allows outrageous and visceral emotion and thoughts. It's such a strange play, both extravagant and spare all at once, and endlessly breathtaking - you gasp and ache.
The actual staging of the play was brilliant. It was pretty elaborate, in terms of mechanics, although the aesthetics of the set was nicely spare. Uncluttered.
And the best part, the best part was that it was only ten pounds to see the show.
The worst part, unfortunately, was that people don't know how to behave at theatre performances, apparently. The couple to our left was eating oranges, dropping the peels on the floor. The couple to our right kept hissing to each other, "What did she say? Did you catch that? I don't know what's going on." The girl just behind us kept snapping pictures (something any idiot with half a brain knows not to do, and is illegal to boot). And a woman down in front kept talking through the show and laughing at inappropriate moments. I mean, the play is satirical, it has it's humorous parts. But, at the end, in the very definitely not funny and rather horrible last scene, she laughed as the lights went down. The lead actor was clearly not pleased during the bows. None of us were.
The funny thing is, with the exception of the obnoxious, laughing woman, I was completely unaware of all of this until the lights went up and my friends indignantly complained about it to one another. I was too busy being absorbed in the show.
The Swing Dance Society finally had it's first meeting on Monday night. I was the first one there, being, as usual, rather nerdy. Then a few more people trickled in, then a few more, and then the instructor showed up. She's younger than I'd imagined, with artsy and ridiculous eyeshadow (blue and silver, with eyeliner drawn out in swoops like a spiky Chinese calligraphy letter on crack) and pinstriped pants.
There were about twenty girls and two guys present, but that wasn't a problem, because the instructor (JoJo, as she told us to call her) simply split the room in half and deemed one side leaders and the other followers.
I was surprised to find that I was one of the only ones there who had any previous swing experience. So it was slow going for a while, and JoJo proved to be an excellent dancer and a mediocre teacher – she'd get excited and ahead of herself, and used vague, half-articulated phrases to describe moves, and glossed over basics and tended to jump around, going off on tangents and forgetting what she was originally supposed to be explaining. It was, however, sweaty and fun and got the blood pumping. Next week should be fun.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
How to vote for "A Monster Named Larry (Lives Under My Bed)" - for real, this time.
Greetings everyone,
Sorry about all the delays and confusion – hope it hasn’t put you off voting! Finally, the videos are up and ready for viewing and rating. So …
Here it is: the definitive “How to Vote” instructions!
1) Go to http://myinfo.apple.com/ and log on with your Apple ID (alternatively, go to the address and get an Apple ID – it’s free and you need it to vote).
2) Then, go to http://edcommunity.apple.com/insomnia_fall07/contest.php. On the right-hand side of the page is a menu – click “Login/Register to Rate & Comment.”
This will be a little redundant, but please also fill out this registration form. For “school,” just pick one you like or attend. Doesn’t really matter. Once you’ve done this, a page will appear informing of your successful registration.
3) Click the link on that page, bringing you back to the student video gallery. Search for “A Monster Named Larry Lives Under My Bed” or just “A Monster Named Larry” (capitalization not necessary).
4) Watch the video (this isn’t necessary, and does take a while to load, so don’t stress over it). Then, on the right hand side, choose your rating from the dropdown menu (preferably “excellent” … cough) and click the arrow next to it. The page will reload, with a message in that same area that says that your rating has been recorded.
5) That’s it! You’re done! Thanks so much. We really appreciate it!
Love,
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Seeing more
I was sitting at my desk, admiring the pencil cup I'd just made (all those pens rolling around, the scissors always getting lost under notebooks and papers ... they were driving me crazy), when I noticed that the light was hitting the tree outside my window in a golden rush. It was beautiful.
But when I tried to take a picture of it,
the pixels lost something - they didn't capture that warm, fierce beauty. They didn't see the spangling orange off the leaves (which turned red all at once, so I looked up one morning expecting green, and saw rust and russet and garnet instead), they didn't feel the heat of the sunset in the cool fall air.What was it that my eyes could see but the pixels couldn't? I wondered if film would have registered the gold that my brain insisted was there. I remember being glad that I had synapses and dendrites to remember things by, that I had those messy tangles of tissue that see more, according to the photocells of the camera, than mere light.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
How I spent 24 hours of my life
Apple.com is hosting its yearly Insomnia Film Festival. Across the country (and in our case, abroad), students spend 24 hours scripting, filming, and editing a three minute film. The films are then voted on by the wider public (you). The top 25 are then handed over to a panel of world-class directors and producers to be judged, and one is picked as the best of the best. There are prizes and modest notoriety for both the winner of the public vote and the judges' pick.
My friends and I decided, mostly last minute, to do it. The result may be not the best quality, technically speaking, but it has a lot of heart.
Here's a link to the video (even if you watch it, please be sure to also vote for it at apple.com!), "A Monster Named Larry (Lives Under My Bed)."
Voting and rating runs from October 19th through November 9th. Please vote for us! Go here:
http://edcommunity.apple.com/insomnia_fall07/contest.php
and search for "Willoughby Films" or "A Monster Named Larry (Lives Under My Bed)" or some variation thereof!
You'll need an Apple ID (http://myinfo.apple.com). It's free to get one, and you need one to vote and rate the videos. The site will ask for a billing address, but don't worry - there's no cost to get an ID. When you vote, the form you fill out will prompt you to choose a school – this doesn’t matter, just pick one you like/attend/attended/never heard of/like the sound of/wish you went to, etc.
So, please, show your support by voting and rating! Tell your friends and family (enemies and strangers, too)! Much appreciation and many thanks!
My friends and I decided, mostly last minute, to do it. The result may be not the best quality, technically speaking, but it has a lot of heart.
Here's a link to the video (even if you watch it, please be sure to also vote for it at apple.com!), "A Monster Named Larry (Lives Under My Bed)."
Voting and rating runs from October 19th through November 9th. Please vote for us! Go here:
http://edcommunity.apple.com/insomnia_fall07/contest.php
and search for "Willoughby Films" or "A Monster Named Larry (Lives Under My Bed)" or some variation thereof!
You'll need an Apple ID (http://myinfo.apple.com). It's free to get one, and you need one to vote and rate the videos. The site will ask for a billing address, but don't worry - there's no cost to get an ID. When you vote, the form you fill out will prompt you to choose a school – this doesn’t matter, just pick one you like/attend/attended/never heard of/like the sound of/wish you went to, etc.
So, please, show your support by voting and rating! Tell your friends and family (enemies and strangers, too)! Much appreciation and many thanks!
Monday, October 15, 2007
Anthills and space stations
The other day, my friends and I decided to go to the Tate Modern. It's an art museum that houses, yes, modern art. Mostly "modern" in the sense that anything after the second world war is classified as "modern," but also contemporary artwork as well.
It was ... interesting. I saw Monet's Waterlilies, which is much larger than I'd anticipated. People always comment that famous artwork is a lot smaller in real life than they'd imagined, but Waterlilies was vast. I always sort of had this image in my head of pale blue water with greens and carefully picked out lilypads in vague, shimmery brush strokes. However, the painting is large, this mass of blue greens and a lot of thin rust-colored veins in it. The effect is of lots of incredibly thin, incredibly fine fabric or tissue bunched over the painting. It's surprisingly delicate, surprisingly vague, surprisingly mellow. I learned that only part of the painting is usually depicted in reproductions - the lower left corner, rather than the whole thing, which is mostly empty and quiet.
There was an odd exhibit, which had two live parrots in a cage, sand and gravel on the floor, and a little hut that housed, not a goat or other animal as one would expect, but a television playing some obscure images. Modern art.
But perhaps my favorite exhibit was a film playing in a small black room. It was just a jungle floor, and ants. The artist had strewn a lot of large round confetti pieces on the ground near the ant colony, and they were climbing around, picking up the shiny, colorful bits of plastic and taking them back to the anthill. It was really fascinating to watch. Very ... quiet, and strange, and whimsical. The only noises were the faint clicking of the ants clattering over the undergrowth. It made me smile. It was so far-fetched, but it was really happening! Ants, curious, inspecting, claiming, marching around with these round flat discs of metallic gold and pink and green and blue and purple. Little moving pieces of color across the ground. Sometimes, one ant would struggle, dragging a piece of confetti over the ground, and then another would come along and help, and they'd scuttle backward with it, antennae waving in the air.
By the end of the day, I felt dazed. Going to a modern art museum is like having your senses assaulted moment by moment. You get a little loopy by the end of it. Stepping outside into the fresh air was intoxicating and invigorating. It was like a good night's rest, a hot shower, and a hearty breakfast, all in one deep breath of cool air.
I don't know if I've mentioned it, but a lot of the Tube stations are like space stations, all silver and curving and slick. I can't imagine why more independent directors don't use them as sci-fi film locations, because they're wonderful. Hilariously so. It's like being spacey is equivalent to being cutting edge. It's Mod all over again, but in a slightly less day-glo way.
It was ... interesting. I saw Monet's Waterlilies, which is much larger than I'd anticipated. People always comment that famous artwork is a lot smaller in real life than they'd imagined, but Waterlilies was vast. I always sort of had this image in my head of pale blue water with greens and carefully picked out lilypads in vague, shimmery brush strokes. However, the painting is large, this mass of blue greens and a lot of thin rust-colored veins in it. The effect is of lots of incredibly thin, incredibly fine fabric or tissue bunched over the painting. It's surprisingly delicate, surprisingly vague, surprisingly mellow. I learned that only part of the painting is usually depicted in reproductions - the lower left corner, rather than the whole thing, which is mostly empty and quiet.
There was an odd exhibit, which had two live parrots in a cage, sand and gravel on the floor, and a little hut that housed, not a goat or other animal as one would expect, but a television playing some obscure images. Modern art.
But perhaps my favorite exhibit was a film playing in a small black room. It was just a jungle floor, and ants. The artist had strewn a lot of large round confetti pieces on the ground near the ant colony, and they were climbing around, picking up the shiny, colorful bits of plastic and taking them back to the anthill. It was really fascinating to watch. Very ... quiet, and strange, and whimsical. The only noises were the faint clicking of the ants clattering over the undergrowth. It made me smile. It was so far-fetched, but it was really happening! Ants, curious, inspecting, claiming, marching around with these round flat discs of metallic gold and pink and green and blue and purple. Little moving pieces of color across the ground. Sometimes, one ant would struggle, dragging a piece of confetti over the ground, and then another would come along and help, and they'd scuttle backward with it, antennae waving in the air.
By the end of the day, I felt dazed. Going to a modern art museum is like having your senses assaulted moment by moment. You get a little loopy by the end of it. Stepping outside into the fresh air was intoxicating and invigorating. It was like a good night's rest, a hot shower, and a hearty breakfast, all in one deep breath of cool air.
I don't know if I've mentioned it, but a lot of the Tube stations are like space stations, all silver and curving and slick. I can't imagine why more independent directors don't use them as sci-fi film locations, because they're wonderful. Hilariously so. It's like being spacey is equivalent to being cutting edge. It's Mod all over again, but in a slightly less day-glo way.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Snapshots
I was planning on taking pictures of campus today for your benefit, but London decided to rain today. Another day, perhaps.
Once again, the Swing Dance Society has put off its first meeting. We're now meeting on Friday night at five. Fortunately, I don't have any conflicts, so I'll still be able to make it. I was really hoping to get to dance tonight! Something to get the blood racing around its closed track. I guess I could run up and down the stairs, but where's the fun in that? It'll be good. I can't wait.
Today, I learned that the publishers of one of the books I need for a class have entirely run out of extant copies and are printing up more. The book won't be available until November. Awesome. Hello, Library, be my new best friend.
I've discovered two new media forms:
Also, I was bad. I passed the Student Union store, and started looking at the Goldsmiths apparel. Everything (mostly) in the store is "ethical." For example, the Goldsmiths hoodies are made from fairtrade cotton. Also, the hoodies are really dense but still thin and soft, so they're warm without being terribly bulky, so they don't need to be broken in before they're actually nice to wear; they're pre-niced, like pre-shrunk, but better. And so ... um ... I bought one.
I know! I'm sorry. But, I figured, once I get back to the states, it'd be nice to have something warm and snuggly to wear and remind me of my adventures here ....
Weak argument, I know. Yeah, yeah, I've got my brain to remember things with. And this blog. And photographs. And new friends on Facebook. Um.
Look, I just really wanted it, okay?
Once again, the Swing Dance Society has put off its first meeting. We're now meeting on Friday night at five. Fortunately, I don't have any conflicts, so I'll still be able to make it. I was really hoping to get to dance tonight! Something to get the blood racing around its closed track. I guess I could run up and down the stairs, but where's the fun in that? It'll be good. I can't wait.
Today, I learned that the publishers of one of the books I need for a class have entirely run out of extant copies and are printing up more. The book won't be available until November. Awesome. Hello, Library, be my new best friend.
I've discovered two new media forms:
- Pandora.com, an online radio site. It's pretty much amazing. I listen to it while I write fiction and read for the rest of my classes. Pandora lets you create personalized stations, in which you can list specific songs or artists as "seeds." The website then takes those seeds and finds similar music, which, while you listen, you can choose to rate, thus honing the station further. The upshot of all this is that you get to sit around listening to music you'll probably like (from artists you may not have even heard before) with little effort.
- E-Audio books, courtesy MyMediaMall, via the Warren-Newport Public Library. I've listened to books I desperately want to be reading but don't own or have here with me. The website doesn't have a great variety, but they have some staples. Convenient!
Also, I was bad. I passed the Student Union store, and started looking at the Goldsmiths apparel. Everything (mostly) in the store is "ethical." For example, the Goldsmiths hoodies are made from fairtrade cotton. Also, the hoodies are really dense but still thin and soft, so they're warm without being terribly bulky, so they don't need to be broken in before they're actually nice to wear; they're pre-niced, like pre-shrunk, but better. And so ... um ... I bought one.I know! I'm sorry. But, I figured, once I get back to the states, it'd be nice to have something warm and snuggly to wear and remind me of my adventures here ....
Weak argument, I know. Yeah, yeah, I've got my brain to remember things with. And this blog. And photographs. And new friends on Facebook. Um.
Look, I just really wanted it, okay?
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
The digs (and an excess of parenthetical statements)
Pretty cushy accommodations, I gotta say. The bedding, however, is a rather horrible indeterminate shade of peachy orangey pink (I think perhaps a bout of emergency tie-dying is in order). They're also made from some synthetic fiber, and result in a fabric that is simultaneously reminiscent of both plastic grocery bags and nail files. I was forced to purchase some cheap but thankfully cotton pillowcases which are an unenthusiastic and un-sunshiney orange. Also, the plentiful bookshelf space but meager book stock is tragic - this is not the room's fault, of course. There is absolutely nothing I can do about the curtains.
Despite these flaws, I really like the rooms.
They're surprisingly spacious, comfortable, and clean (in a completely good and satisfying way, not in the desperately-searching-for-something-positive-to-say way). They're very ... friendly lodgings. I guess that's the right word. It doesn't feel industrial, like so much of collegiate housing does. Maybe it's the fact that the room is carpeted in a friendly blue-grey (with flecks of practically every other color imaginable woven into it). I can walk barefoot around my room without freezing my feet off. I find myself wishing that Coe's housing were like this. The built-in furniture, though taking away some potential creativity on the lodger's part, is an improvement to the shabby linoleum desks and wobbly beds of Murray Hall. It's undeniably solid, making it easier to feel like it's really somewhere you're living, rather than somewhere you happen to be temporarily staying.
After this, I think that there is now no way I can go back to living in a double. It's not that I don't get along with roommates; I've liked the roommates I've had, quite a lot actually. But ... it's incredibly relieving to have a space I can completely fill without any unspoken lines of demarcation. It's mine, no questions asked. I can pin up whatever arcane decoration I want, I can play whatever music, whenever, at whatever volume, without seeking permission. I can have the window open at all times (a small pleasure mentioned in a previous post).
It's probably selfish, but it's nice being answerable to no one. For a given amount of "unanswerable," of course. School housing rules still apply, some of which are pretty silly and readily ignored by everyone (no music played without headphones in the dorms, for example), some which are actually taken seriously (no candles), while others are tolerated with a sigh (nothing hung on the walls with tape, sticky-tack, or any other adhesive substance).
Tomorrow: first class of the term. Writing Fiction (advanced). I still have no idea where it is. I was told by the receptionist to "drop by the night of your class. There should be a board posted with all the classes and their locations listed. Probably."
Oh, art school. Efficiency's not all bad.
At the same time, it's a little exciting. Exciting in that very disorganized and haphazard sort of way. Regardless, I'm very interested to see how fiction/writing courses are handled here. I'm told that the workshop style is very much an American thing, but it's slowly catching on overseas. We'll see, come seven o'clock tomorrow.
Provided, of course, that I can find the classroom.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Pitter pitter, and patter, patter
My friends and I decided it'd be fun to draw pictures last night. Well. Actually, I decided it'd be fun.
Hey, London can't be constantly exciting. Sometimes you gotta kick back and doodle.
Went to Covent Garden today with Brittany. It's not a garden, but some twisty alleyways of shops, and then a central open air market with a permanent roof. It was fun, in a very soggy way. It rained, all day. I don't feel like we saw much of it from under our umbrellas. If you're ever touring around somewhere, make sure you have shoes that don't leak (I wore my cheap ballet flats instead of my heavier walking shoes, deciding that if my feet were going to be wet regardless, they wouldn't be wet in socks). It's hard to appreciate anything when you squish with every step. I had no idea I could think so much about my feet in one afternoon.
There were a few tricky moments navigating the crowded, narrow sidewalks; everyone seemed to be carrying dripping umbrellas. Once, I was framed by two men who passed me on either side, lifting their umbrellas so mine passed just beneath, three boned domes, a momentary and chance awning.
In one of the lifts (or "elevators," to us colonists) at the Covent Garden tube station, there was a man whose waist was level with my shoulders.
p.s. I now own a UK edition of a Terry Pratchett book. My heart skips a little every time I look at it. It's like I'm finally a true Pratchett fan. Flutter flutter.
Hey, London can't be constantly exciting. Sometimes you gotta kick back and doodle.
Went to Covent Garden today with Brittany. It's not a garden, but some twisty alleyways of shops, and then a central open air market with a permanent roof. It was fun, in a very soggy way. It rained, all day. I don't feel like we saw much of it from under our umbrellas. If you're ever touring around somewhere, make sure you have shoes that don't leak (I wore my cheap ballet flats instead of my heavier walking shoes, deciding that if my feet were going to be wet regardless, they wouldn't be wet in socks). It's hard to appreciate anything when you squish with every step. I had no idea I could think so much about my feet in one afternoon.
There were a few tricky moments navigating the crowded, narrow sidewalks; everyone seemed to be carrying dripping umbrellas. Once, I was framed by two men who passed me on either side, lifting their umbrellas so mine passed just beneath, three boned domes, a momentary and chance awning.
In one of the lifts (or "elevators," to us colonists) at the Covent Garden tube station, there was a man whose waist was level with my shoulders.
p.s. I now own a UK edition of a Terry Pratchett book. My heart skips a little every time I look at it. It's like I'm finally a true Pratchett fan. Flutter flutter.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Things I (still) can't find
- Tape.
- Small lamp (to put near my bed - it's endlessly irritating to have to get up out of bed to turn off the lights when one is finished reading and ready for sleep)
I know it's only two items, but they're two items the lack of which is driving me crazy. I keep needing tape for little things, and it keeps not being there. This is difficult for me, being the kind of person who constantly carries both tape and scissors on her person at all times. You never know when you'll need them.
I was, however, successful in getting my bathroom drain to unclog. It drained terribly slowly. I purchased a cheap bottle of drain cleaner, dumped it in, and fifteen minutes later - hey presto! - my sink now functions like normal sinks should.
Being domestic can at times be utterly satisfying.
Amersham, yesterday, was lovely. John met me at the station and we drove around, absorbing the countryside. There are a lot of trees, large and unabashed stripes of woodland along the roadsides. It reminded me of Michigan. All that old growth, grey and tangled, but still shot through with greeny gold.
The whole day was that way, particularly at the park at St Alban's, with its wide open green spaces and scruffy trees and jungle gyms (complete with small children in brightly colored galoshes).
It was remarkably light, sun on my face, but shadows everywhere else. The sky was dark, with brooding clouds hanging opaquely overhead. But all around the horizons, suffused throughout, was a sense of soft gold illumination. Not that the senses reported any of this - the wind was chill and my skin prickled, my eyes registered the dull iron sky; nonetheless, there was an unshakable texture of warmth in the air. It felt like the air at sunset after a long summer day. But it was chilly, unquestionably autumn. It felt like fall, but it tasted like summer. Silver and gold all laced in the atmosphere under those dark heavy clouds.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Crispy
Last night, I made dinner for my flat (tortilla soup). There were no black beans anywhere at the grocery store, so I substituted red kidney beans. And, apparently in England, they don't have tortilla chips. Doritos, yes, but no plain old tortilla chips, flour or corn, anywhere. So, in a fit of inspiration, I bought a pack of eight large tortillas and some olive oil, with which to experiment in the making of chips. Or, I suppose I should call them, crisps.
The first batch, while definitely crunchy, were also black. I was afraid I was going to set off the smoke alarm. I ran around the kitchen with a pink towel, flapping about. The rest of them were slightly browned, and not as crispy. But still tasty, paprika-ed and salted.
Everyone helped clean up. Dishes and glasses passed from hand to hand, things stacked neatly, wrapped, stowed in the two small fridges.
So now I have bottles of rosemary, paprika, cumin, and allspice, olive oil, and rice in my cupboard.
It's really incredible how much it takes to fill out a kitchen. I feel like I'm going to be spending money every day, accumulating ingredients meal by meal, until I finally have a fully stocked arsenal of cooking necessities. Fortunately, my flatmates are the sharing types, and we cheerfully swap pans and silverware.
The weather here is like the best days of fall at home. It's almost always blustery (the kind of round bubbles of wind that send coats flapping and hats flying along in sine waves), with high flying, fast moving clouds way up in the blue, and sun. Three layers are requisite. All the girls wear tights. That wind. It's wonderful. It's the kind of weather that pinks your cheeks a little, sends your hair cowlicking all over, and quickens your blood with all that movement.
I've been wearing jackets every day. And scarves. That fall weather! Those fall clothes! My friend Dave wrote in an email, from home, that the weather at school is finally "getting brisk. Flannel and jeans now...splendid." The tree outside my window is reddening on the tips, going gold from the trunk out, with hints of orange along the undersides of branches.
One advantage of having no roommate (one of many), is that I've been sleeping with my window open, allowing the temperature to drop as far as I like without regard for another's mammalian needs. I sit reading for a while until the cold sends me into bed, under the covers, grinning. I wake up stuffy-nosed with twin bubbles of cold in my chest; I breathe in, the bubbles expand, and hemoglobin pick up a dot of sparkling cool oxygen.
Yeah. That crisp bite. I live for it.
I can't wait for classes to begin. I really do thrive in the academic environment. It's not nearly as exhausting as being sociable. Books! Writing! Studying! I do these things.
Today: going to check out a local dance studio, browsing the Deptford Market.
The first batch, while definitely crunchy, were also black. I was afraid I was going to set off the smoke alarm. I ran around the kitchen with a pink towel, flapping about. The rest of them were slightly browned, and not as crispy. But still tasty, paprika-ed and salted.
Everyone helped clean up. Dishes and glasses passed from hand to hand, things stacked neatly, wrapped, stowed in the two small fridges.
So now I have bottles of rosemary, paprika, cumin, and allspice, olive oil, and rice in my cupboard.
It's really incredible how much it takes to fill out a kitchen. I feel like I'm going to be spending money every day, accumulating ingredients meal by meal, until I finally have a fully stocked arsenal of cooking necessities. Fortunately, my flatmates are the sharing types, and we cheerfully swap pans and silverware.
The weather here is like the best days of fall at home. It's almost always blustery (the kind of round bubbles of wind that send coats flapping and hats flying along in sine waves), with high flying, fast moving clouds way up in the blue, and sun. Three layers are requisite. All the girls wear tights. That wind. It's wonderful. It's the kind of weather that pinks your cheeks a little, sends your hair cowlicking all over, and quickens your blood with all that movement.
I've been wearing jackets every day. And scarves. That fall weather! Those fall clothes! My friend Dave wrote in an email, from home, that the weather at school is finally "getting brisk. Flannel and jeans now...splendid." The tree outside my window is reddening on the tips, going gold from the trunk out, with hints of orange along the undersides of branches.
One advantage of having no roommate (one of many), is that I've been sleeping with my window open, allowing the temperature to drop as far as I like without regard for another's mammalian needs. I sit reading for a while until the cold sends me into bed, under the covers, grinning. I wake up stuffy-nosed with twin bubbles of cold in my chest; I breathe in, the bubbles expand, and hemoglobin pick up a dot of sparkling cool oxygen.
Yeah. That crisp bite. I live for it.
I can't wait for classes to begin. I really do thrive in the academic environment. It's not nearly as exhausting as being sociable. Books! Writing! Studying! I do these things.
Today: going to check out a local dance studio, browsing the Deptford Market.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Reach
The mail address:
C4H
Loring Hall
St James's
New Cross
London
SE14 6AH
Mobile# (cell phone):
+007964449834
These first few days at Goldsmiths have been filled with a lot of new faces, new names, and endless sessions on how not to fail (do my homework, attend my seminars, and don't plagiarize). My flatmates are an interesting bunch (six other girls and one boy), all quirks and generosity.
The campus is wonderfully rambling. The college has, over the years, bought up a lot of the surrounding property, but instead of tearing it down and rebuilding, they simply move onto the premises. A row of apartments (brick and cobbles and flower boxes) is now a row of administration offices. There are stores and other things interspersed with the campus buildings. For example, my hall is cozied up to a private children's school. Kids in blazers and bright white knee-highs troop past me on the sidewalk in the mornings.
My window overlooks the Loring Hall courtyard. The window of our kitchen also opens out that way, and we can see other flats sitting down to meals together.
There's a definite feel of the arts here. (One of my flatmates is practicing her violin. It's lovely and sad, coming faintly through the wall to my left.) Every third person sports a mohawk or purple hair or striped tights or haphazardly deconstructed shirts. I imagine that this is what Columbia College in Chicago is like. There is a strong flavor (or rather, flavour) of artistic snobbery coupled with pseudo-intellectualism. However, everyone I've met is, one-on-one, very friendly. The trick is to get them away from the pack. Even at art school, people forget how to be individuals.
I cut my hair last night. I'll wait to post pictures, A) I haven't taken any, and B) perhaps the suspense will keep you checking back. :-)
Today I went shopping for some necessities. I found a few kitchen amenities, soap, shampoo/conditioner, and several other mundane necessaries, all for under twenty pounds (it doesn't sound as good when you convert it to dollars). Nonetheless, I don't feel too guilty. You can't beat ninety pence face wash.
I was, however, unable to find hangers. So that's my mission for tomorrow. Find hangers, finish unpacking (I'm sick of living out of suitcases), take photos of my room and kitchen and campus.
It's exciting, meeting new people, exploring a new place. You can see the London Eye from the student union building at night. This thin blue crescent, floating partially obscured on the horizon, surprisingly close. If I reach out, I could brush it, send it spinning, a silent whirl of lights.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The city
I'm in London. It's completely, entirely, unshakeably surreal. An hour ago, I was on a plane flying from Chicago, then suddenly I was on a bus on my way to Kensington. Honestly, it feels like any other city, any other bus, heading to any other hotel. It could be New York, Seattle, Chicago, St Louis. But then I realized that the driver is sitting on the right side, the road signs are round, the police sirens are strange and round-throated.
The plane ride was equally strange. Sure, they had English accents (oh bliss! oh joy!), but it was bland, it was like a show in a concert hall, all cardboard and brittle smiles and playacting. I almost felt like we were flying in circles, and we'd end up in a Hollywood backlot where we would wander, awestruck tourists, until we'd discover that Buckingham Palace is flat and Kensington Park a matte painting, that everything was run by hollowly grinning directors and harried stage crews.
But I'm here. And it's real.
Modern structures nestle companionably against crenelated near-ruins. It's oddly charming. There are pubs, some obviously run for tourists, some worn by regular patrons like an old tweed coat. On High Street, there's disappointingly familiar shops (McDonalds, H&M, the GAP). There are also excitingly, nauseatingly exotic ones, things you only see on streets where everyone wears coats made out of panthers and shoes of manta ray skin. Or something equally ridiculous and expensive.
I've yet to make it to my college's campus, which, I'm told, is in a dodgy part of town. An guaranteed adventure, I'm sure. Reports to come, I promise.
p.s. If you leave me a comment and don't have a Blogger account, please sign your comment. I love to hear from you, but I have no idea who's doing the talking if you don't let me know who you are! Just sign it in the comment itself. Something like, "Boundless, indescribable love and admiration from Jane Doe." You know. The general praise and adulation.
The plane ride was equally strange. Sure, they had English accents (oh bliss! oh joy!), but it was bland, it was like a show in a concert hall, all cardboard and brittle smiles and playacting. I almost felt like we were flying in circles, and we'd end up in a Hollywood backlot where we would wander, awestruck tourists, until we'd discover that Buckingham Palace is flat and Kensington Park a matte painting, that everything was run by hollowly grinning directors and harried stage crews.
But I'm here. And it's real.
Modern structures nestle companionably against crenelated near-ruins. It's oddly charming. There are pubs, some obviously run for tourists, some worn by regular patrons like an old tweed coat. On High Street, there's disappointingly familiar shops (McDonalds, H&M, the GAP). There are also excitingly, nauseatingly exotic ones, things you only see on streets where everyone wears coats made out of panthers and shoes of manta ray skin. Or something equally ridiculous and expensive.
I've yet to make it to my college's campus, which, I'm told, is in a dodgy part of town. An guaranteed adventure, I'm sure. Reports to come, I promise.
p.s. If you leave me a comment and don't have a Blogger account, please sign your comment. I love to hear from you, but I have no idea who's doing the talking if you don't let me know who you are! Just sign it in the comment itself. Something like, "Boundless, indescribable love and admiration from Jane Doe." You know. The general praise and adulation.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
I found out that my dorm at Goldsmiths will have internet access. This is wonderful news. Well, I suppose I could just walk to the library, but this means I'll be able to update people of the events of my life at such sensible hours as four in the morning.
I now have a Skype account. If you have one as well, we can communicate for free. Let me know.
My username is "leta.l.keane" - so find me and we'll set up a time to talk. Excellent.
There are times that I really like the internet.
I now have a Skype account. If you have one as well, we can communicate for free. Let me know.
My username is "leta.l.keane" - so find me and we'll set up a time to talk. Excellent.
There are times that I really like the internet.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Shoring up homesickness
Constantly telling people how excited I am to go to London is ... well, it's a little tiring. It hasn't really lessened my excitement (it's only made me more eager to go, right now), but what else am I supposed or expected to say? No, I'm not looking forward to going to Europe at all. I'm absolutely dreading it. Don't make me go. I wish I were staying in Iowa.
Ridiculous.
I'm visiting my school right now (the one here in the states). It's really great seeing everyone. You know, accruing memories and moments with friends to fortify myself in the long semester without them. I'm glad to be here, undoubtedly, but at the same time, it's ... upsetting? I feel like I could have been fine without having come to visit. Yeah, I missed people, but going without them until January was fine. It'd suck, but it wasn't actually a desperate worry. But now, with these fresh experiences, I think I'm going to be more homesick than I would have been had I just left from home straight to London.
It won't be terrible. I mean, it's London. With new people. And London. You know. London.
But I think showing up here, while satisfying and (probably) needed, is also going to make things a little harder.
But, as I always say under these circumstances, it's worth it. I can take a little homesickness in exchange for time with friends. Gladly.
Ridiculous.
I'm visiting my school right now (the one here in the states). It's really great seeing everyone. You know, accruing memories and moments with friends to fortify myself in the long semester without them. I'm glad to be here, undoubtedly, but at the same time, it's ... upsetting? I feel like I could have been fine without having come to visit. Yeah, I missed people, but going without them until January was fine. It'd suck, but it wasn't actually a desperate worry. But now, with these fresh experiences, I think I'm going to be more homesick than I would have been had I just left from home straight to London.
It won't be terrible. I mean, it's London. With new people. And London. You know. London.
But I think showing up here, while satisfying and (probably) needed, is also going to make things a little harder.
But, as I always say under these circumstances, it's worth it. I can take a little homesickness in exchange for time with friends. Gladly.
Monday, July 23, 2007
It'd be nice
I would like this for whilst I'm navigating my way aroud the bustling metropolis that is London. This small, silver locket is actually opens to reveal, not the miniature image of a loved one, but a precision compass of the Stanley London company.Both classy and useful.
I've also been told that I would be wise to purchase "wellies" and a digital camera. Both of which would be nice. Neither of which will, in all likelihood, happen.
But, really, it will be enough to be in London, even soggy-footed and lost.
Friday, June 22, 2007
There's a poser, no doubt about it
What does untouched wilderness have in common with a swarming metropolis?
I feel the same way about London as I did about going to the Boundary Waters for a month. Excitement, undeniably. But there's a little part of me that wonders if I'm merely excited because it's something I'm supposed to be excited about - going to London! going to the Boundary Waters! And I am looking forward to it. But I don't know what I'm excited about. It's so far removed from my experiences thus far that I can't even begin to imagine what life there will be like.
And, admittedly, I'm dreading just a little what I'll do for a semester. It's a short one, only three months long, but nonetheless ...
It's like last July. I like the outdoors, the sun, canoeing, sure, but can I do it for a whole month? Can I handle it? Or will I get two weeks in and regret it? It turned out all right - I'd go back to the boundary waters in a heartbeat - but there was that deep uncertainty going into it.
But I suppose that's also the allure. Last summer, it was a test. The sort of "Can I do it - rough it, brave the elements, sweat, dirt, stave off the mosquitos" mentality. It was a challenge. And it's more of the same now. Only instead of portaging, it's walking the city; instead of mosquitos, its learning the Underground; instead of bad weather and knee-high mud, it's meeting new people.
I guess I can't call it nerves or anxiety. Because, really, when I think about it, I want to be there so badly I can taste it, like fog and wet pavement. I want to be out there, forced on my own, forced to see how I'll fare out there in the great wide open. I want to be lost amid the rest of humanity, having to learn on the fly.
So much of what I know, here at home, is ease. The comfort of familiarity. But, right now, I don't want comfort. The Boundary Waters was a shock - a jolt from the normal routine. I had to readjust, adapt, melt a little. I think I became a better person. And I've sunk again into this soft monotony. And I want to be shaken again. I want to get out and breathe the air, I want to savor change.
I don't need sharp rocks or harsh sunlight this time. I need the seething streets of London. Friends to be sought out and made. Professors to be met. Independence.
So I guess, really, part of what I want to take away from London is not just friendships and knowledge and memories and a pretentious accent ... but a degree self-reliance. Confidence.
Maybe that's a tall order. I don't know. I'll just have to wait and see. That's the point of anticipation.
I feel the same way about London as I did about going to the Boundary Waters for a month. Excitement, undeniably. But there's a little part of me that wonders if I'm merely excited because it's something I'm supposed to be excited about - going to London! going to the Boundary Waters! And I am looking forward to it. But I don't know what I'm excited about. It's so far removed from my experiences thus far that I can't even begin to imagine what life there will be like.
And, admittedly, I'm dreading just a little what I'll do for a semester. It's a short one, only three months long, but nonetheless ...
It's like last July. I like the outdoors, the sun, canoeing, sure, but can I do it for a whole month? Can I handle it? Or will I get two weeks in and regret it? It turned out all right - I'd go back to the boundary waters in a heartbeat - but there was that deep uncertainty going into it.
But I suppose that's also the allure. Last summer, it was a test. The sort of "Can I do it - rough it, brave the elements, sweat, dirt, stave off the mosquitos" mentality. It was a challenge. And it's more of the same now. Only instead of portaging, it's walking the city; instead of mosquitos, its learning the Underground; instead of bad weather and knee-high mud, it's meeting new people.
I guess I can't call it nerves or anxiety. Because, really, when I think about it, I want to be there so badly I can taste it, like fog and wet pavement. I want to be out there, forced on my own, forced to see how I'll fare out there in the great wide open. I want to be lost amid the rest of humanity, having to learn on the fly.
So much of what I know, here at home, is ease. The comfort of familiarity. But, right now, I don't want comfort. The Boundary Waters was a shock - a jolt from the normal routine. I had to readjust, adapt, melt a little. I think I became a better person. And I've sunk again into this soft monotony. And I want to be shaken again. I want to get out and breathe the air, I want to savor change.
I don't need sharp rocks or harsh sunlight this time. I need the seething streets of London. Friends to be sought out and made. Professors to be met. Independence.
So I guess, really, part of what I want to take away from London is not just friendships and knowledge and memories and a pretentious accent ... but a degree self-reliance. Confidence.
Maybe that's a tall order. I don't know. I'll just have to wait and see. That's the point of anticipation.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Still yet to do
There's a long way to go yet. Plane tickets have been purchased, but not much else has been done. A few articles of clothing, shoes, stowed in a box or mentally marked as "Taking to London."
I've got to talk to a few people who've gone to Goldsmiths, pick their brains.
Rupert, here I come.
Need: slicker, slacks, London vocabulary.
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