Home, and the protean nature of memory

          So it's been over a month that I've been home now.
          I didn't get the reverse culture shock that I was expecting - I was so convinced that I was going to be snappish and irritable at everyone that I must have overcompensated or something; things were smooth sailing. It wasn't as alien being home as I thought it would be, either. I walked into my room and felt merely comfort. I perused the kitchen pantry and felt no signs of shock or surprise - just the deep satisfaction at having so many varieties of foodstuffs at my disposal. Sitting down at my piano was like coming home all over again. My parents were merely pleased and happy, not smothering and imprisoning. My mom made my favorite hot dish.
          All this is good.
          But it makes me feel a little ... traitorous? You know. It's as though returning to Stateside life so easily indicates that London hadn't meant anything to me.
          I've noticed that I've started to give stock answers to people's questions. "How was London?" "Fantastic." I list places and shows I saw, talk about High Street Kensington, about New Cross and Chick Chicken. And these are all true. They were real experiences, ones I enjoyed. But I find myself editing. Days of sullen grey rain are glossed into a single, vague sentence: "It rained a lot." I don't mention impromptu trips to the Hobgoblin, or Sainsbury's excursions, or wandering around Covent Garden just for the hell of it. The experiences I relate are the ones that were planned and expected. I mean, I understand that corners have to be cut. Details have to be trimmed. But I'm finding that, by only telling overarching stories about my experiences, I'm only left with overarching memories.

          I miss the easy and thoughtless camaraderie Brittany, Nick, Gonzo and I had. The question "Are you hanging out with us tonight?" was met with a scoff - why bother asking when the answer is always yes, obviously, of course, what do you mean am I hanging out with you tonight, I mean really?
          I'm not going to spend my time complaining about Iowa or Illinois. Because, really, I love both my homes. But one advantage of only having three friends is that you never have to work at or worry about being social. It's not a task - it's an instinct.
          So. Being home. I'm settling into classes here at Coe. It's weird having a class meet twice or thrice a week - I have so little free time. I did like the once a week approach Goldsmiths had. However, I guess there's a shift in the balance of how you spend that extra time. Learning in the States is far more professor-directed. You're pretty much told what to get out of the lectures and readings. At Goldsmiths, though, most of what you get out of those things are the observations and analyses you draw yourself. I don't really prefer one to the other, I guess; it's not as though I need a lot of time between classes to explore Cedar Rapids, and I like the dynamic between students and professors when the professor is not just a lecturer, but an involved and interactive tutor.

          This entry is sounding a lot more negative than I'd intended.
          I find that, try as I might, I'm turning into one of those irritating people who spends all her time reminiscing about London. It's not that I'm ungrateful or disinterested in what's going on here. It's not that I dislike the States, or Coe, or Chicago - quite the reverse, actually. I mean, I just spent a fantastic weekend in Chicago with my friends (it was their joint 20th birthday party). But everything reminds me of something I did there.


          Uplifting, happy reflection: London was good. It was good for me. I loved the city, I loved the people I met and the friends I made. I miss pubs (a sub-culture in and of themselves). It was good having this intricate city, ready and easy to be explored (thank God for the Tube), with its free museums and varied restaurants and wide sidewalks.
          I did gain more independence. I picked up some of that urbane self-assurance. I learned that life overseas is as flawed and upsetting as it is at home - a bald and obvious revelation, but one that took a while to sink in - but it's also no more flawed and upsetting than home. You have to deal with iniquities. And now I know how to do that in a place where they drive on the wrong side of the road.
          I think I expected London to change me. I expected to undergo some inexorable, natural transformation, as though the different air and different soil would act as catalysts, sparking a rewiring of synapses and thought patterns. I guess it's done that, but the change was voluntary, and began internally.

          In all, I would go back in a heartbeat. I don't know if I could live there for good - a year, maybe - but I could spend another three months. I miss walking along the Thames, the picturesque squalor of New Cross, the little flower seller next to the Hobgoblin, Chris ("Do you have six pounds? No? Then tell me, do you have ninety P?"), even getting up at four a.m. to wait in line for cheap tickets to shows. I even miss the days of boredom and homesickness and frustration. It was real.
          I never had many romantic visions of London. I didn't know what to expect. I'm glad now that I've been there, that I have the feel of it under my feet, under my skin.
          It's another place I've put down roots.
          I hope it's not going to be a one time deal. I hope I make it back, see how it's changed and I've changed. But even if it remains just this isolated experience - it was a good one.