"All the Night's Magic seems to Whisper and Hush..."

I don’t really mind being alone. Ok, that’s sort of a lie. Sometimes it tears me apart inside, when the loneliness sets in. But there’s a distinction between being alone and being lonely, and I really sometimes like the former. Lonely means lacking in human interaction when you most crave it. Alone means solitary reflections, basking in your thoughts, sometimes in a made-up world that’s so much cooler than your own.

One of my favorite things to do in New York, especially at the beginning of the semester when it was still warm out, was to grab my iPod and walk down the block to Columbus Circle, then sit at the foot of the massive statue of old Christopher himself, under the angel, watching the fountain. This was particularly soothing when I was still in mourning over Michael Jackson, whose music has had such an amazing impact on my entire life, and I’d just slip on my headphones and blast “Heal the World,” lost in my thoughts. Similarly, one of my favorite things to do in Wisconsin is just drive around by myself, music blasting loud, singing at the top of my lungs with the windows open. Alone can mean jubilation, a secret happiness which leads to you smiling when no one else knows why.

Last night I found myself alone, though again, not necessarily lonely. It was one or two in the morning, and my mom would’ve killed me if she had found out, never mind that London is way safer than New York ever was. I caught the last, nearly empty train to Baker Street. Some people may recognize that name, it is, after all, where the famed Sherlock Holmes did his work. Whether you’ve seen the movie or read the original Doyle, you’re definitely familiar with the iconic figure of a mustachioed man in a funny hat and pipe (though not so much in the movie), figuring out impossible cases. Baker Street is familiar with its literary legacy, and the tube station there has little scenes of Holmes adorning the walls, his silhouette marking the tiles. Walking down the street you see stores advertising Sherlock Holmes merchandise, pubs named for the man, everything you can think of.

Walking down Baker Street at night is almost like traveling back in time. Ignoring the street lights and cars for a second, I could envision the buildings back in their Victorian splendor, and could almost see Holmes striding home after cracking the case, Watson trailing in his wake. My Holmes is different from Robert Downey Jr’s, even though I did love the movie. He’s bookish, giving hope to all of us who spend time indulging in literary pursuits, that one day maybe we can be the heros of our own lives, solving our own issues.

Once the clock strikes midnight, London effectively becomes Cinderella, and rushes back to comfort and silence after the bustling day. Unlike New York, where, in the words of the scholar and poet Jay-Z, the city never sleeps so better slip you an Ambien, London shuts down. Completely lights out. Baker Street is in Central London, and the tube there is a major hub. But after midnight, the tube closes and so do all the stores, restaurants, and pubs, especially on the weeknights. Trying to find a night bus to get back home, I was completely calmed by the quiet of the streets. I’d never been so alone in New York after dark, and even then I felt a strong wariness, bordering on fear, until I got to a busy street. Here, there are no busy streets after midnight, but at the same time, there isn’t that feeling that something very bad is imminent.

Completely lost, I had asked for directions from multiple men, older construction workers going into the depths of the tube after closing time. They were all very nice, and seemed to know the area very well. I wonder if they felt bad for me, a solitary girl in the middle of the night, trying to find her way in the city and clearly American by the accent. I was grateful they knew exactly what they were doing, and without their kindness I’d probably have been stuck in Baker Street, or at least significantly poorer after resorting to a cab.

The night was clear, cold but not freezing, and I was almost happy. The moon shone through the few clouds, illuminating them, giving the sky a silvery glow. I knew that it was dark back in both Wisconsin and New York by this time, even with the time difference, and was comforted by the fact that the same moon shining on my was present for them as well. Lost in my reverie, I took out my iPod and started scrolling, suddenly getting the urge to listen to music about the moon. I started “Moondance” by Michael Bublè. With no one on the street and me safely at my bus stop, I started dancing alone, a demented sort of tapping and shuffling around, enjoying the sound of my feet against the pavement mingled with the music in my ears. Then i switched to Michael Jackson’s “Scared of the Moon,” wondering at that moment how anyone could be afraid of that wonderful orb looking down from the sky, seeing all and providing comfort to the nighttime daydreamers like myself.

Eventually the spell was broken by the approach of my bus. While I was grateful to go home, and comfortable in the plush seats, I could no longer feel the same peace. Michael’s “Stranger in Moscow” started to play, and I too felt like a stranger in a strange land. I would never be one of Them, I would always be somewhat of an observer, watching and learning from this great new culture. I had come to London to learn about England, of course, but also to learn about myself, reinventing me along the way. Everyone needs an escape sometimes, and this was mine. It’s funny how people here have, in some ways, made me feel like I belong more than some of my experiences in my own country, in spite of my outsider status or maybe even because of it. The harsh light of the bus turned my thoughts unpleasant, increasingly introspective yet angry at myself.

Then my bus came to my stop, and I stepped off, back into the soothing cold and soft light, watching the shadows as they played across the brick wall lining the street. My peace returned, and I started doing that odd shuffle again, humming to myself and dancing to my own music, with my own steps.

After all, it was a wonderful night for a moondance.

Um, Whoops

Unfortunately, I have to issue a correction. Turns out the word "knackered" actually means tired. I was just confused cause I've heard it so much from drunk people I just assumed it was a synonym. Cue English-drinking-tolerance-joke HERE.

Hold on to that feelin'

I’m a really terrible dancer. Like, the worst. When I dance I look like a spastic monkey having a seizure. It’s a pretty terrible sight, and I always feel the need to apologize for inflicting it on the poor people around me.

That doesn’t mean I can bring myself to stop, though. Which is unfortunate, I know, but what can you do? Sometimes the music just hits full force and I can feel it strumming on my soul, and it’d be sacrilege to ignore it. Music transcends nationalities and other differences, especially if you can let yourself heed the call, uninhibited, for a little while at least.

I’ve been in London for about three months now, and I still love it, even if I had so many problems signing up for classes- I literally didn’t know what classes I was up for until a week into school. But the students are all really cool, especially my floor (the party floor, not unlike freshman year, which I admit I love). While other friends of mine from back home are living in households with adorable old retired couples and quickly learning French or Spanish, I find that I’m learning the language here too, though unlike my friends, I can’t exactly use it. Why? Well, the whole purpose of, say, living in France with a French family is to learn French, especially all the little idiosyncrasies and dialectical differences that make it more authentic, giving you a full experience.

With English, on the other hand, it’s already my native language, even if I do use a different version of it. When talking about all the differences in spelling (color = colour, for example) I couldn’t argue with one kid’s reasoning- “It’s our language- ENGLISH as in ENGLAND- you stole it from US, you can’t complain,” although I still think a lot of our spelling is easier. There are just so many new words I’m learning, I feel like I’m in an alternate universe with much better slang. As much as I like these new additions, I can’t exactly use them in everyday vocabulary. Why? Cause I’d feel like a pretentious douchenozzle. So here’s my list:

English Words I Wish I Could Use Without Sounding Like A Douchenozzle

1. Dodgy (sketchy) usage: That’s the dodgy alleyway where a squatter got attacked by another squatter wielding a crowbar.

1. Cheers (thanks, see ya) usage: Oh hey, it’s been a nice night out at the pub, I can’t walk in a straight line but thanks for the good time, cheers mate.
2. Mate (friend, amigo) usage: I will punch someone in the face to defend my mates.
3. Hench (buff, juiced up) usage: So, let me get this straight, you’d define guidos as being really tan and super hench to the point of illegal steroid use?
4. Knackered (drunk) usage: I got so knackered last night I didn’t notice when someone started drawing on me in permanent marker, and only woke up this morning to find most of these drawings are obscene.
5. Bin (garbage can) usage: That week-old cheese should just go directly into the bin, please don’t actually eat it or worse, throw it at people.
6. Slag (skank) usage: She’s such a slag, she's gone through all of Hampstead.
7. Chav (someone who wears the hoop earrings, white sneakers, etc. you know what i mean) usage: Lady Sovereign’s a bit of a chavette, she wears the massive earrings and shiny shoes.
8. Trousers (pants, cause pants here is different) usage: Someone got passion fruit on my trousers, and they’re all stained now.
9. Fringe (bangs) usage: I slept with my headband covering my forehead, I’ve been using my fringe all day to cover up the mark the indentation made on my face.
10. Lorry (truck) usage: I can’t get hit by a lorry, I have things to do. Note: Do NOT use semi here. It means something completely different, with a different pronunciation. Found that out the hard way on google images.
11. Nicked (stole) usage: I nicked this hat from a random guy at the pub, and decided to take it with me to the club.
12. Rubbish (garbage) usage: Those old shoes are absolutely rubbish, really, you should just throw them in the bin.
13. Bloody (oh come on, you know this one) usage: It’s bloody cold out here, since god forbid London ever gets some sun.
14. Git (idiot) usage: He led us to the wrong tube station, ack, what a git.
15. Chunder (vomit, gross, right?) usage: You don’t really want me to use chunder in a sentence, do you?
16. Holiday (vacation) usage: Yeah, we’ve been on holidays all around the world. What? This is your first time ever leaving the continental US? Oh.

Then there are English slang words that I don’t WANT to use. For example, fag means something completely different here than in the US. While at the Blue Post, this wonderful place where we listen to an amazing live performer, Bee, the singer, had one more song. “Guys, it’s been lovely playing for you this evening, but I have to go on my fag break for fifteen minutes.” There was a pause as I found myself physically cringing, I hate that word no matter what the context. “Oh wait!” she started, “I really need to stop saying that, since I heard in America it’s a really bad word.” I only wish some Americans were aware.

When I’m in public, I generally shy away from using the peace sign, hand facing inward, because it makes you look like a douchebag. People who generally pose for pictures like that on a habitual, non-ironic basis are generally people I don’t want to know. But in England, it’s flat out obscene. Waving two fingers at someone like that is worse than flipping the bird, something that I’m still not used to, and can’t quite wrap my head around. I’ve always associated it with obnoxious frat boys posing for group photos or spikey-haired guidos taking a break from fist-pumping (yeah, I miss Jersey Shore, and will make as many references as possible). I’m secretly glad that here it’s just not acceptable.

Slang goes both ways, though. When I mentioned that I can’t use “mates” without sounding like an idiot, a friend of mine here claimed they can’t say “dude.” I’ve never heard an English person here use the word “dude” yet, which is slightly amazing, considering how much I find myself using it. Just a random exclamation- “Dude! Did you see that guy faceplant drunkenly on the table!” doesn’t work among the Brits. So while I miss saying “mates,” I’m sort of glad I can keep my “dude.” Even if that too, makes me sound like a douchebag.

Accents are a funny thing. An entire group of people share this language identity just due to region and community. I read somewhere that in the age of the internet and globalization, accents are actually getting STRONGER, as if to reinforce the shared identity we get when we actually do speak to each other. I’m getting more and more used to the English accent, to the point where I’m asking people to repeat things to a minimum now, and sometimes just plain don’t even notice. It no longer takes me a few tries to pay attention to what the person is actually saying because I’m too busy just listening to the lilts of their dialect.

Sometimes I like to imitate my English friends, and sometimes I can be pretty decent at it, though others I crash and burn. I always ask permission before I start repeating everything the people around me are saying like a supremely annoying parrot. Part of it goes back to the first night I met most of the people in my building, and one American kid, who was not-so-affectionately dubbed “Drunky” after he dove headfirst into enjoying the lower drinking age, refused to speak in anything but his warped idea of what an English accent sounds like. Between throwing up on the floor of the pub and pounding back other people’s drinks, he supremely annoyed and offended a lot of the English kids by mixing some random form of Scottish, Australian, Irish, and Borat.

So, I always ask for permission before I start copying all the different accents. Of course, sometimes this means that my friends make me say obscene things in the name of getting me to repeat it in an English accent. Sometimes they complain that I make them sound “stuck-up.” But most of the time it’s fun, since I wish I had an English accent.

Surprisingly, many of my English friends claim to wish they had American accents. Imitating me, they’ll say, in my dorky Midwestern accent, “Hai, I’m Anne Wimmer, I’m from WisCONsin.” Too bad they didn’t get someone with a normal American accent, and have to make do with the weird Milwaukee hybrid I have. I’ve become more aware of the distinctly American things I say, like “Oh that sucks” and “It’s really killer funny.” Americans speak slower than Brits, to the point where I get impatient with myself when I’m speaking, since I’m used to hearing fast paced, tumbling over each other, British.

Some things are still universal though. Music, first and foremost. There’s nothing more fun than dancing, no matter how spastically, on the second floor of a pub to an awesome singer. From the basements in Wisconsin with my high school friends, to the karaoke bars of Koreatown in New York City with my Fordham friends, to the streets of London with my English friends, one song comes back to haunt me over and over again.

It’s a song about a small town girl, living in a lonely world, who took the midnight train going anywhere. It’s a song about a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit, who also took the midnight train going anywhere. It’s a song about streetlight people, living just to find emotion. It’s a song about humanity, the constant dream of success, people striving to find others who understand them.

It’s a mantra, imploring you, begging you, commanding you- don’t stop believing.

I’ll never escape from that song, whether it’s hummed softly from a couch in the Midwest, sang loudly into microphones, the lyrics splashed across a screen of generic Asians looking disaffected in a small room in New York, or shouted on the top floor of a double decker bus in London, there’s literally no song in my life that has punctuated the greatest of moments so thoroughly.

Even if SOME people don’t know the lyrics.

So, I’ll let music make the moment. I’ll keep my spastic dancing, thankyouverymuch, and you can just cover your eyes if you have a problem. I’ll let Bee and Ian and their special guests in the Blue Post force me to get up and move, and have the music take control.

Cause if there’s one thing that we can all understand, it’s music, and the need to believe.

Westminster Flame

I have a thing for old graves.

Weird, I know, and likely not a phrase you hear every day. Or at least, hopefully not, or you need to start hanging out with a different group of people. But it’s true. I really do like old grave sites, cemeteries, tombs, whatever. As a kid we’d go up to this place called Norway Valley in Wisconsin, where a lot of my family came from. There we’d traipse along the old cemetery, reading about Gilbertsons, Olsons, and Emersons gone by (unsurprisingly, nearly all the names were Norwegian, as that was the population). A lifelong history buff, I’d call out about someone born in Oslo and died in the early 1900’s of typhoid or other near-eradicated diseases, imagining their lives before they ended up in that grave.

I’ve had the distinction of visiting Buffalo Bill’s grave in Colorado twice, checking out the museum beforehand, posing for pictures with the cowboy props, buying Annie Oakley stuff in the gift shop (loved her, until I found out her real name was Phoebe Ann Moses, not Anne like I had hoped). Then we’d walk to the grave itself, surrounded by a metal fence for protection and for some reason covered in pennies, as if throwing coins on the grave slab of some dead guy will bring luck.

In DC I visited Arlington Cemetery, staring into the eternal flame of Kennedy’s grave, located next to Jackie O’s. We drove to Mount Vernon, exploring the estate and then ogling at the Washingtons, enclosed protectively in a brick building. In New York I tried to see Alexander Hamilton’s grave, but the cemetery’s closed, as it’s pretty much crumbling apart. I even looked into going to Grant’s Tomb, passing it often in the Ram Van, but found there wasn’t much to see there but, well, the Grants.

Most creepily, over the summer when I was driving in Brookfield, Wisconsin, to pick up my sister from a friend’s house, I nearly braked in the middle of the road when I saw a sign advertising a Revolutionary War veteran’s grave. Immediately I parked in the nearby church and walked over, reading the plaque- apparently he was from Massachusetts, fought for the US in the Revolutionary War, moved out to Wisconsin, and died there, buried among his grandchildren who died in the Civil War. I even texted a friend and fellow history buff, amazed at being that close to history.

Westminster Abbey was therefore super exciting for me.

For the uninformed, it’s basically a HUGE church that’s been around for over a millennium, and nearly every inch of the floor is right above dead people. Like, seriously, Haley Joel Osment would be going crazy in there. It’s impossible to get through the Abbey WITHOUT stepping on some dead guy, and it’s pretty likely that dead guy’s famous. There are monuments everywhere, intricate statues that must have cost loads of money, shoved off to the side because there’s simply no space, rooms overflowing with tombs, giant stone slabs on the ground indicating who’s underneath it.

It’s probably my favorite place in the world so far.

When I first entered, I was hit in the face with a massive sense of history. Even if you know little about Westminster Abbey, you can’t help but appreciate the feel that this is an Important Place. I grabbed one of the audio tour thingies, since I came with the price of admission (it may be free to worship there, but if you came to gape at the illustrious corpses, you need to pay) and started listening as Jeremy Irons filled me in on all the details. I’m not going to go into it here, since it’s easily wikipdiable, but basically everyone who’s anyone in English history has either a memorial built to them or is present personally.

I checked out some of the big names off the bat- Edward the Confessor’s there, though slightly out of reach, as are multiple other kings and queens. Entering one of the chapels, I cursed myself for taking Spanish in high school instead of Latin, since some presumably interesting stuff was inscribed above the visages of clearly Medieval men and women, some sculpted in knightly armor. I kept pausing the tour, because while the bigwigs of history are of course interesting, I couldn’t help but be drawn away by less “important” people buried there. Who were these people? How did they get the prime real estate of Westminster Abbey? What were they like? This husband and wife are entombed together, forever stuck with each other- did they love each other? Hell, with arranged marriages, did they even LIKE each other? I was that obnoxious person shoving through, trying to inspect every corner. I was appalled at some statues, with fingers broken off or otherwise vandalized. I was saddened by some floor slabs, the names unreadable due to centuries of people walking all over them.

Some people got great treatment. I liked the statues that showed the entombed being personally carried to the beyond by angels, or the guy bravely attempting to save his wife from a pretty terrifying-looking Death. Henry VII, the guy who started the Tudor dynasty (my favorite period of history) built his own chapel. Other people weren’t quite as lucky- Oliver Cromwell’s stone is still there, but he himself is not, his body having been dug up centuries ago and degraded. Anne of Cleves may have been the least interesting of Henry VIII’s wives, but she deserved better than a little brick with her name on it that I only discovered by accident. She did survive him, after all, with only a divorce to contend with instead of head loss.

Chaucer’s there too, and I nearly wanted to kick at his tomb for all the work I had to do in my class that shared his name last semester. Darwin’s underground, as is Dr. Livingstone (I presume... get it? No? Ok...) and Rudyard Kipling. I wished we were allowed to take picture, because it was like the Oscars, if the red carpet was really a massive indoor cemetery and the celebrities were all dead. I’d totally support some Thriller action if that meant seeing some of these people in the flesh, no matter how decaying that flesh may be.

Other important historical objects are there, too, not just dead people. Westminster Abbey is the place where Kings and Queens are made, quite literally, that’s where they hold the coronations. Out of reach and roped off is the Coronation Chair, which is quite possibly the ugliest piece of furniture I’ve ever seen. It’s hundreds of years old, and while I can appreciate its significance and definitely its age, I didn’t come to the Abbey specifically to see it, like a lot of people did. I think the monarchy is interesting, and love reading up on past kings and queens, especially British ones, as they tend to be totally and completely insane and therefore interesting. But as an annoying American, the institution itself does nothing for me. Nah, I didn’t go to the Abbey for a rotting, carved-up seat. I came for the next thing I went to see, what I’ve been waiting to glimpse at for years.

I came for the Queens.

As I’ve stated before, it’s no secret how much I love Tudor history. I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because they’re an example of a blended family that got along even worse than mine. Maybe it’s because I admire the strength of women like Elizabeth I, my all-time idol.

But either way, I was totally geeking out when I saw them. Mary, Queen of Scots came first, since I screwed up the order on the audio tour and got momentarily disoriented. Though she was beheaded by Elizabeth (long story), her tomb’s almost cooler, since her son ended up being king of the whole realm and decided to give mummy a nice place to rest for eternity. For some odd reason, a ton of Queen Anne’s 17 stillborn children are buried in the tomb with her (Queen Anne was early 1700’s), something that even I find creepy.

Then came Elizabeth. If you know about Tudor history, you’ll know that Elizabeth and her sister Mary weren’t exactly best buds. But they’re in the same tomb, though Elizabeth’s the one carved on top. I was in awe the entire time I stood there, trying to get out of the way of other tourists in the enclosed space but still unable to bring myself to leave the room quite yet. Here I was, standing RIGHT NEXT TO ELIZABETH. Sure, she’s pretty much just dust now. She did die in 1603. But on the other side of that stone, entombed for eternity, was my hero. When no one was watching I reached through the bars and grazed the side of the tomb, since there was no sign that explicitly said not to touch. She was there. Maybe not spiritually, but still. Elizabeth was a strong woman who beat the odds to become queen, and reigned for almost 50 years. Under her rule, England became a world power, defeated the Spanish Armada, started moving in on this New World place, and saw an artistic growth that spawned the likes of Shakespeare and Marlowe, just to name a couple. In a heavily patriarchal society, she refused to tie herself to any man, instead wittily playing the game to make alliances. She thrived even though she had a tyrannical dad who killed her mom, and a sister who imprisoned her. Elizabeth’s known as one of the greatest monarchs of all time.

Yeah, she’s pretty much my favorite.

That’s why I like old graves so much. It’s the only opportunity in my lifetime to get close to history and the people who lived it, defined it, and were shaped by it. I wasn’t just looking at an artifact through glass, in a climate controlled room in a museum thousands of miles away from the history. I was actually standing in a building that had seen it all, separated from actual historical figures by only a few feet of dirt or a barrier of concrete.

Sure, I’m morbid. That’s not a secret. I practically advertise it. But it’s more than macabre curiosity in the weird and disgusting that makes me interested in old cemeteries.

After I took my tour, when I was just loitering around the exit to the Abbey but not quite ready to leave yet, I noticed a stand of candles off to the side. I approached it, noticing that few of the candles were lit, flickering in the dark of the massive church, undisturbed by the people walking around. There was a slip of paper underneath, that said, “By lighting this candle you join the many thousands of people who through the ages have made the Abbey a house of prayer. Light your candle and quietly offer your prayer to God.”

Instantly I was hit with history, and felt the sense of the universe pulling at me, the world working its natural order, the cycle of life and death and the things that matter to every individual that has passed through the hallowed halls. I envisioned people in all sorts of dress, from the Middle Ages to the Elizabethan Era to the Victorian Age to the present, holding a candle and whispering to God. The earth shifted, and I felt the presence of all who have come before me. My hopes and dreams seemed pale in comparison to the centuries of time this place has seen, but I thought of them anyways, concentrating on my own prayer. I though of the people I had left behind back home, my family and friends and how I hoped they would be ok. I thought of my time here in England, as limited as it may be, but still stretching out before me, filled with possibility. I worried about fitting in, as I am wont to worry about, and considered the questions raging through my mind- what if no one likes me? What if I’m left behind? What if I end up alone, spending my future alone, living my life alone? How will I come out of this six months, and will I like who I become? Then the history hit me again, and I realized that my questions and worries weren’t very different from those of people 100, 500, 1,000 years ago, standing in that very church, offering a silent prayer. My world had come full circle, and I was calm.

I lit my candle and moved on.

Cliche

Scatting sounds a lot like speaking in tongues.

That’s what I’m thinking as I sit in in the second floor of a pub, listening to a lady sing the blues. I’m one of the only Americans in a group of rowdy (yet absolutely hilarious) British kids. My next thought: How did I get here?

It’s been a long time since I’ve updated, and I’m sorry. I’ve been only slightly busy. After a whirlwind of orientation where we were basically barraged with carefully phrased common sense- Don’t overtip! Keep an eye on your belongings! Look both ways before crossing the street!- I finally got settled into my dorm at Hampstead.

Hampstead’s kind of far. At first, I was more than a little dismayed. Settled among mansions- apparently, Ricky Gervais and Russell Brand are only a couple of the marquee names in the neighborhood- it takes me easily 45 minutes, a half hour if I’m lucky, to get to King’s College’s Strand Campus, across from the Thames. I have to take a bus, then get on the tube, then transfer to another train, far more than I obviously ever had to do at Fordham, where at worst I had a half hour ram van ride to look forward to that pulled right up to my building.

I’ve been constantly comparing London to New York, a comparison that’s not really fair because they’ve both had such different histories. One thing that gets me the most is that after 12:30, the tube shuts down. Closes. Down for the count. It makes life so much more difficult when trying to get from point A to point B, amd I can’t imagine the subway closing down. I mean, sure, the trains might take forever on a Saturday night at 4 AM, but they’re still THERE. No need to walk a mile to find the nearest night bus to take you where you have to go. But the upside is that the trains are much cleaner here, with plush seats and a smooth ride. No orange plastic benches for the British.

Another surprise is the proliferation of Princess Diana stuff. Her face is plastered on every surface they could think of, most surprisingly shot glass. Getting hammered from a Princess Diana glass sort of creeps me out, considering how her death was partially due to an intoxicated driver. It’s like making Kurt Cobain bullets. But... I’ll still probably get one.

I hate to admit it, but one obstacle is dialect. Whenever I told people that I was studying abroad in London, the most common reaction was, “Oh, so at least you won’t have to learn a new language or anything.” Wrong. I feel like a jerk, since I’m constantly asking people to repeat things. And some words have completely different meanings. After telling my friends about the no pants subway ride, I was met with confused stares. “Wait, you mean they didn’t wear pants? That’s allowed? Or do you mean trousers?”

“Yeah, trousers.” The word felt weird on my tongue. I don’t think I’ve ever said “trousers” before. I felt like a fake, a wannabe, putting on an English dialect to fit in or feel cool. But it was an important clarification. Pants means underwear here. Which would mean a much more scandalous and less hygienic subway ride, and altogether unpleasant.

I also feel like an idiot whenever I open my mouth. I’d be sitting in a pub or on the tube, listening to everyone in their soothing Britishness and sophisticated sounding slang, and then someone would ask me a question and the spell would be broken the second I start to speak. Not only do I have an American accent, I have a MIDWESTERN accent, which is simply unforgivable. I was told I sound like Sarah Palin the other night, and it still stings. Meanwhile my British friends are shocked that I can’t tell the difference between their regional accents- I can get Irish, Scottish, and maybe even Liverpool, but that’s pretty much the extent of my differentiation. But the slight nuances in an Essex accent versus someone from Nottingham? No idea. I can’t even locate them on a map.

On the tube the other day, on my way to the school for the umpteenth time since I STILL don’t have my class schedule, and classes start next week, I found myself thinking about home. What shocked me was that it wasn’t Wisconsin I thought of, or even the US as a whole. I specifically referred to New York City as home, albeit in my head. I’ve never really considered it. Part of this trip to London is also city scouting- I have the advantage of not being tied to a certain place after graduation, and have considered moving to San Francisco and even LA, pondering becoming an ex-pat and living stylishly in London. I never said I was going to live in New York my entire life, so the sudden nostalgia I felt for it still puzzles me. I mean, I love it, don’t get me wrong. It’s a concrete jungle where dreams are made of, after all, no matter how grammatically incorrect.

But... is New York my home? I tell people I’m originally from Wisconsin, but since no one knows where that is, I just follow up with, “But I go to school in New York,” and automatically everyone knows what I’m talking about. Sometimes I even just skip to “Oh, I live in New York,” but I feel like that’s a lie. I haven’t been to New York in just over a month now. I know it’s totally annoying- I’m in London but I’m thinking about New York all the time, and my relationship to it. Though I’ve only been here a week, I can already see myself living here someday- it just feels right. But before I pack my bags, I guess I want to grasp just how much I’d be giving up.

Overall, I’m super in love with London, with Hampstead, with Ellison’s fourth floor. People have been so friendly, and I can’t help but just be totally, completely happy about my choice in coming here. I’m having FUN, lots of it, and I’m just enjoying myself.

That’s pretty much all I have for now. Sorry if it’s disjointed, I’ve been writing this for days. I’ll try to be better at this.

In the Chicago airport...

It’s quiet in the terminal.

That’s all I can think about right now. Currently I’m sitting in my gate, using internet sporadically since they charge by the minute, and watching people browse the duty free shop across from my gate. Which, by the way, is empty, since I’m 3 and a half hours early. The 5:10 flight before me just left, so I have a good two and a half hours before I even need to board. I seem to be the only passenger sitting at the gate- everyone else seem to be bored security guards or TSA workers watching football on the overhead tvs.

Because nothing makes me feel confident in airport security like five security guards gathered around a tv, watching people tackle each other.

It’s been a rough couple of days. My family left for Aspen, so it was up to my mom and I to run all over the place, getting ready for my imminent departure. I’m the earliest person I know leaving for study abroad by a long shot, so while everyone else got to sit and enjoy their breaks, I was busy mall hopping and frantically figuring out exchange rates. Not that I’m complaining. But it would be nice to have another week or so. Though I was lucky to get to Madison for New Year’s Eve- I’m not sure if I’m ready to talk about it. I can’t even remember most of it. Madison is hardcore, and I’m ashamed to call myself a Wisconsinite when these other WI natives are able to party so much harder than me and still live. I’m assuming it will only be worse in London.

Today was a sort-of sucky day. My family was supposed to fly back to Milwaukee just in time to see me off, but Aspen being Aspen, a massive private jet bumped all the flights from their schedule and they missed their connection in Denver. I wish I knew who was on that jet. I’m so mad, and because of that, an entire family has to wait a whole other day to get home, just because some rich person couldn’t wait a little longer to land (and no, it wasn’t a fuel issue, that would actually be understandable). But it’s amazing what a call from a really good friend can do, so I got over it.

I ended up taking a bus down to Chicago’s O’Hare airport (Milwaukee doesn’t fly to England, or really anywhere outside of North America). It was fine, one of those nice Coach deals. I got on in Waukesha, and ended up being the only person on it for about a half hour, until we got to the train station in Milwaukee. What made that more awkward was the fact that I sat in the wayyyy back (I wanted to be close to the bathroom, if that makes any sense) so keeping up a conversation between yourself and a bus driver a good 20 rows ahead of you is no small task. It involved yelling and the occasional “I’m sorry, what?” Luckily more people hopped on, and after a couple more stops in Milwaukee, Racine, and Kenosha, there were about 20 people.

So, while normally the ride from Milwaukee to Chicago’s about an hour and a half, I sat on this bus for two and a half hours, just listening to Michael Jackson and feeling a little like a freak because no one sat within five rows of me.

When I got to the airport, I thought I had an idea of what to expect because I listened to my aunt. Aunt Lu has traveled pretty much everywhere, from China to Brazil to Egypt to Spain. She married a German and now divides her time between Kleve, Germany and Rice Lake, Wisconsin. Incidentally, she’s flown that terrorist-targeted KLM flight from Amsterdam to Detroit dozens of times, since she lives on the Holland/German border and then transfers in Detroit to Minneapolis. Aunt Lu’s helped me out a lot, and is even offering to help me move in when I get there, since apparently London’s only an hour plane ride away from Amsterdam. She got me slightly nervous, drilling into my head- “You better watch out and get there early. I fly out of Chicago all the time and it takes me an hour and a half to get through security! And then when you do, there are no restaurants on the other side!” Listening to her, I made sure to get there four hours early, thinking that post-terrorist attempt, it would take me two hours to get through imagined long, winding security lines.

It took me ten minutes.

I fly a lot, since going to school a thousand miles away tends to mean I have to. That was literally the shortest security line I’ve ever had to go through. I’ve sat for an hour at LaGuardia, stagnant, hoping to get moving soon to catch my flight to Milwaukee. I’ve felt rushed, aware of the possibly hundred or so people impatient behind me, glaring while I tear off my shoes and pull out my laptop. I even wore new moccasins that I knew would make the security dash less stressful.

Only two people were behind me. Neither were impatient, but rather more occupied with the cat traveling with the person in the security line next door. The only thing that held us up were the TSA workers flirting with the guy ahead of me (one started dusting his hand for residue or something, I don’t know, it was terrorism related, and then giggled and admitted she just wanted to touch him. I almost threw up on the X-ray machine).

After I passed through I was hit with an overwhelming and puzzling quiet. When I called my mom, I felt like I should whisper. It was almost eerie, passing from crowds, the bustle, and the loud and sometimes passionate goodbyes on one side of security to the silence of the other. I kind of liked it.

There was one thing my Aunt was right about, though- there really is not a single restaurant of any kind past security. Nothing. Not even a little kiosk selling sandwiches. The best I could do was skittles, and it was between that and pringles. It’s a good thing I’m too nervous to be hungry (and have a couple fruit roll-ups packed in my carry-on) or I’d be starving.

I literally haven’t had time to visualize what it’s going to be like in London. Part of it is that I have absolutely no idea what to expect. To reiterate, I’ve never been out of the country. Never passed from these continental 48 states. I have no idea what London’s even like to visit, much less to live there for six months. Right now I’m just trying to concentrate on getting through the flight. I’m so deathly afraid of flying, the flight itself has been occupying my mind for the past few days that I’ve almost forgotten where I’m flying to. I have no idea what’ll happen when I land, since I can’t get beyond the actual act of landing. I just hope everything goes well on this, my longest and first international flight, and that I’m able to pass easily through customs.

So, just in case anyone wants to contact me while I’m abroad, I’ll have to let you know that I won’t be using my cell phone. But I did just set up a skype account- it’s under my twitter name, annethwimmerson. Otherwise of course there’s facebook and the aforementioned twitter and I hope that I don’t abandon this like I do everything else and-

OH MY GOD SOME MALE FLIGHT ATTENDANTS JUST SAT ACROSS FROM ME AND THEY HAVE BRITISH ACCENTS. I think I’m going to sound off and just listen to them speak for awhile. Didn’t give them much thought until they opened their mouths, now find them very attractive. Looks like there are perks to flying British Airways. I think I’ll be liking London after all...