Mind the Gap

The London tube is much nicer than the New York subway. I know I’ve said that before, but it still holds up. Probably most helpful is the constant reminder to “mind the gap.” In the subway you’ll just hear, in a strong New York accent, “Watch your step,” if even that. “Mind the gap” just sounds better, and when paired with a generic English accent, it’s downright sophisticated. The reminder is completely necessary, however, because sometimes there’s legit a foot of space between the train and the platform. At first you’ll be standing on the edge of the train, ready to step forth into oblivion, until you remember that helpful prompt, look down, and realize just how far from the edge you really are.

That’s how London can be for me. Sometimes I forget I’m in England at all. We could be out in Shoreditch and my mind will somehow transplant me in the East Village, until I try to cross the street and remember the cars are coming from a different way. Or I’ll be sitting in my dorm, watching the clouds pass by from my window, lost in a book, and it won’t be until I hear some students pass my room speaking in English accents that I’ll realize I’m not in Wisconsin anymore. It can almost be like some bizarro world, where everything is so similar yet there’s still something fundamentally different that I just can’t place my finger on. We speak the same language, but with different accents and many different phrases. We watch a lot of the same shows and listen to a lot of the same music, until someone will make a reference to an English pop culture standard that everyone will understand but me, the American, who had never heard of it before. We eat the same food, in theory, though I’ll never understand this country’s obsession with Marmite and fish, and their insistence on adding ketchup to their different-tasting pizza. Books have different covers but the same insides, they begin numbering their floors at zero, making what’s technically the second floor labeled floor one, and even the toilets are different. It can get surreal, though I do want to clarify that I’m not saying one way is particularly better than the other.

One thing that’s struck me as surprising about England is how few people here ever admit to really loving their country. It’s not necessarily that English people hate England, rather that they’re just not nearly as vocal about their national pride and tend to be self-deprecating about this island nation as a whole. In America, you’re bashed over the head with patriotism from birth. The Fourth of July isn’t just a national holiday, it’s practically a holy day, where George Washington and the other Founding Fathers are deified to the extreme, messiahs to save us from tyranny and sin.

Probably an odd observation, but something I noticed none the less, is how few British flags there are hanging around. It’s not like I’m some weirdo who goes judging nationalism based on the number of patriotic symbols you can have hanging from your window, but I guess after living in America, where every other building has an American flag on display at least somewhere, and a lot of businesses do as well, I couldn’t help but see how few Union Jacks were flapping in the London wind. Hell, I’ve seen more houses back home with Wisconsin state flags than I have buildings here with the national standard. I’m not making any judgement, just stating something I’ve noticed.

“So,” one of my friends asked me, somewhat tentatively, as if afraid it may be a touchy-subject, “is it true that all Americans have to say some sort of pledge every morning before school?” After my affirmation, I was somewhat surprised at her reply of “Weiiirrrrdddd... just a little brainwashing, I guess.” I recited the whole thing, from memory, something I know I can do in my sleep if I wanted, after about 14 years of saying it every morning from preschool to high school graduation. Since I went to Catholic school all my life, I grew up starting the day with a prayer, facing the cross, then, depending on the layout of the classroom, shifting to face the flag, moving hands from folded across our midsections to letting the left arm drop and placing the right hand over the heart. Our pledge pose is almost more reverent than the one we use to speak to our Maker, with our hand placed directly over our lifelines rather than the lazy clasping of fingers we use for prayer. Through the pledge, from the words to the stance, we’re not just giving America our “allegiance,” however you interpret that to mean; we’re giving our hearts, minds, and very souls to the Union.

Maybe it is kind of weird, now that I think about it. I guess I just always assumed other countries had something similar, where schoolchildren were made to stand and pledge allegiance to the flag of wherever they were from as well. To be honest, I kind of like the pledge, besides the “under God” part, but that’s an entirely separate issue. Maybe it’s because I’m so used to it, I can’t imagine starting my morning classes as a kid any other way. Call it brainwashing, call it naivete, but I just don’t see what’s wrong with it.

English perceptions of America can be slightly terrifying. Someone once asked if it was true that most Americans were creationists. It was a relief to the kitchen table when I replied that not even a lot of Americans were, just a very vocal minority. Sarah Palin is probably the most famous American politician right now just barely after Barack Obama, and many people here take it for granted that if you disagree with one, you must automatically agree with the other. I’m not shy about my politics, and I’ll gladly tell anyone who I voted for- it’s never been a secret that I cast my ballot for McCain, and still consider him a great personal hero. I have, however, learned to be quieter about the “why” aspect of my politics, after an extremely difficult year. I’ve never felt the brunt of my peers’ anger more so than during and immediately after the election, so I’ll just say that while I self-identify as a Republican, I’m not going to explain my reasoning besides to say it’s personal and I’m not comfortable with the inevitable judgement. But I will make it clear- just because I don’t agree with Obama, does NOT mean I support Sarah Palin in any way, shape, or form, and I definitely do not aspire to be like her. Just, you know, clarifying. Cause that’s necessary.

Whenever new people ask me where I’m from, I respond with “the Midwest, but I go to uni in New York.” This ups my cool factor considerably, cause English people LOVE New York. Seriously. Forget LA, screw Miami, sorry Chicago, here it’s all about NYC. When I first met my English roommate Jess and answered the requisite “Where are you from?” question, she just laughed and said, “Everyone here wants to go so badly to New York but you actually leave THERE to come all the way HERE,” like I was sacrificing a suite at the Ritz for a closet at a Holiday Inn.

It’s not just the affinity for songs about New York, or movies placed there. Probably what I find the strangest is the massive proliferation of Yankee’s caps. They’re EVERYWHERE. When I first moved into the dorm, my program had given us money to spring for a cab, useful with all our baggage. My cab driver was a younger guy, pointing out any landmarks we passed- Abbey Road! And, um, the place where the tube got bombed. But hey, Abbey Road! When I mentioned I was in from New York, he got excited. “I love New York!” he exclaimed, “I’ve never been there, but look at my cap!” He gestured towards his hat, a black baseball cap with the familiar entwined Yankees logo. At first I thought it was a fluke, that I just happened to have a New York-phile cabbie. But nope, Yankees are HUGE here, without any of the interest in the actual sports involved. When I walked into tourist shop to pick up some postcards, I was surprised to find Yankees caps tucked in between Princess Diana shotglasses, Big Ben piggy banks, and Tube Map condoms. Why sell memorabilia from a completely different city in a completely different hemisphere in your tourist trap? The answer eludes me.

Coincidentally enough, I’m currently sitting in the dorm kitchen next to my friend, who, though having never been the NYC, is wearing a “Zoo York” shirt, with a Brooklyn Bridge design and the Yankee’s logo with the N switched out for a Z. Underneath that bridge is the word “Unbreakable,” which I guess it is, at least true in comparison to London Bridge’s penchant for falling down. Or, you know, at least according to the song.

There’s a book out here called “Brooklyn,” by Colm Toibin. I haven’t read it, and by the sounds of the description, I likely won’t. But the ads for it are everywhere in the Underground, massive posters that don’t have the Brooklyn Bridge on display, or maybe the Manhattan skyline as seen by Brooklyn. Nope, they just show the Empire State Building, up close and personal, as if to drive home the point that the book has something to do with New York City, no matter the borough.

What is it with New York here? If anything, it just makes me a bit nostalgic for Fordham, Lincoln Center, and Manhattan in general. I don’t easily get homesick. I never really have. But all this New York love does make me miss it, my favorite city, the place that’s kept me sane for the past few years. I’ve had a massive craving for the Flame, memories of Times Square, residual excitement for New York City nights, especially the rooftop parties with a view of the Empire State Building. I only know a handful of people here who’ve been to New York, though they all seem to love it. I genuinely want my friends to visit me, and even joke with my friend Jack, who loved New York on his visit a couple years ago, how we should get an apartment in a few years, no matter how much like the Odd Couple it would probably be like (I wouldn’t be the clean one, that’s for sure, I’m too cluttered).

It’s not just New York that’s entered the popular culture, America-wise. Just today, I’ve already heard the Beach Boys’ “Surfin’ USA” (for the umpteenth time in London) and Will Smith’s “Miami,” besides, of course, “Empire State of Mind” yet AGAIN.

Earlier we walked to Hampstead, a twee little village-y part of London right near where I live though much nicer. Hampstead itself epitomizes some of the American stereotypes of England- cozy little shops, traditional pubs with names like The Flask and The Holly Bush, cobblestone alleyways, and just general quaintness all around, as if it’s somewhat stuck in the 1950’s. Hampstead is about as traditionally English as London gets, though smack in the middle of it is a restaurant that bills itself as an “American Diner,” under the distinctly Hollywood name of Tinseltown. Inside are vinyl booths and photos of American celebrities, with glamorous award show shots of Tom Cruise, Paris Hilton, and Michael Douglas being just a few of the faces gracing the walls. The restaurant sells “American Classic Shakes” with both distinctly American brands for flavors (Oreo, Snickers) and very English brands that I had never heard of before coming here (Jaffa Cakes? Is that how you spell it?). The menu includes the “Empire State Burger,” because there’s clearly nothing more New York than the largest burger on the menu, and “Dinkytown Waffles,” so named after “a small Minneapolis town”- though never mind that Minneapolis is a city, not a state. Tinseltown itself was actually pretty awesome foodwise, with good quality, but that’s precisely why it’s nothing like my diners back home, the Flame in particular. The whole point of a diner is that the food isn’t always that great, the decor isn’t so contrived, but rather whatever the owners decided to throw together, and the clientele is mostly old people and cheap students rather than the British hipsters and oft-mentioned celebrities Tinseltown seems to attract. It’s apparently one of Russell Brand’s favorite restaurants, however, I’d be surprised if even the most D-List celebrity listed The Flame or something similar as theirs.

While sitting in an “authentic American diner,” I couldn’t help the compulsion to whip out my notebook and ask a few questions, cause I’m just THAT DEDICATED, dear reader, to this blog. “So,” I began, “What do you guys think of New York City?” It helped that Alicia Keys’ version of “Empire State of Mind” was playing over the loudspeaker (I’m really never going to escape that song, am I?) to get us all in the proper mood.

Chris, from Northern England and having never been to the city, answered as I scribbled furiously to keep up. “I just think it’s one of the most exciting places in the world, though I don’t like the over-21 rule.” Students here can’t imagine having to wait for a legal drink for at least another couple years, and the fact that even I, at 20, can’t order a glass of wine back home astounds them. “New York is a microcosm of the world, and I think people don’t necessarily think of it as a representation of America, but rather more of a world city.” This is true. Perhaps my closeness to NYC made it impossible for me to separate New York from my home country, but if New York’s not America, than what can it be? How can New York be any less American than, say, Milwaukee, or even frickin Delafield, Wisconsin, for that matter? Chris continued, though the discussion of New York City struck me as incongruous with his English accent. “New York’s the easiest place for English people to relate to.”

I wanted to ask more, but realized I was becoming some sort of weirdo journalist wannabe, taking notes on conversations I should just casually be having with friends. Plus, you know, the food came, and everyone got too busy stuffing their faces to talk much more about a city thousands of miles across the ocean that nearly none of them had visited. Why do English people relate to it so well? Why not LA, or Chicago, or Boston? LA’s interesting, though I can’t say I’m a fan. Chicago’s slightly more similar, weather-wise. Boston is the closest we have to matching London with sheer historical significance, even if it’s still a baby in terms of age. The rest of England isn’t, from what limited I’ve seen, much like London, just like the rest of America isn’t necessarily similar to New York.

In the few moments I took to ponder this, Chris shrugged in between sips of his “American” milkshake. “Plus, we all really like ‘Friends’ here, so that probably helps.” Great. An entire country loves New York, the city I’ve enjoyed from living there and experiencing its culture firsthand on and off for the last two and a half years, because of a fictional show featuring my nemesis Jennifer Aniston.

They began asking me the same question, but reversed- “How do Americans view London?” It was only fair, but I soon felt apprehensive. I could’ve gone into why I chose London- because I love British music and culture, because I’m an English major and this made the most sense, because it was the only city I could think of outside of America that could compare to New York, because I already spoke the language, and most of all, because I’m a bit of a freak and love history so much that I wanted to go to a place where I had grown up reading about their royal families and landmarks- for FUN. It’s sad when I start spouting off random factoids about Elizabeth I for example, or naming Henry VIII’s wives in order, or really a billion other sad history freakitude when I grew up not actually having to KNOW any of it. But my massive desire to be near the places my people of interest trod, no matter how odd, propelled me to London.

This isn’t really normal, though, and I got nervous answering the original question. I couldn’t really come up with an answer. I’m not really the best representative for America, but I end up being the token person my friends ask about my home country cause I’m often the only one in the room from there when the question comes up. It’s not that I mind- on the contrary, I love it, mainly cause I like to use it as an opportunity for me to learn about England, and there’s no better way than the osmosis of knowledge that takes place in conversation. I just think that my English friends are getting a pretty skewed, weirdo version of America through me. I’m not exactly what you’d call the typical American college student, if there is such a thing. I think anyone that owns more than 5 books on serial killers, made a Michael Jackson collage after he died, and has a massive yearning to visit all the important cemeteries in London is automatically out of the “normal” category no matter what happens.

Of course, it’s not all happiness and butterflies when it comes to English perceptions of America. Today alone I’ve heard at least three “Americans are stupid” jokes, but since they were from my friends I didn’t mind so much. What I DO mind is when adults make the same jokes, only worse, to a classroom half-filled with Americans. My Medieval Book professor, besides being a bit on the boring side and having a tendency to speak so slowly, there’s literally a pause... between... every... word, also has a bad habit of mocking the United States at literally every opportunity. Last class he spent an hour of the two hour period ragging on the US, when he full well knew quite a few of us were from there.

Sample quotes, which I have since I wrote them down directly as he said them, and just imagine there being a massive pause between each word as if they all carry some grand significance: “It may be possible that in America the students may not always pay attention, as I’m sure the possibility of getting shot with a concealed weapon makes concentration more difficult.” “America is a larger, and [sarcastically] more benign country than our own...” “In Medieval times the number one source for history was the Bible, as people then, just as people in the American South and their previous president’s administration do today, believed they were reading history as a story by God.” He does occasionally have a nice thing to say about our country here and there, like how he enjoys American students since we participate more (I’ve heard numerous professors say this) and actually lumps me in with the other English students since I don’t really talk that much and he assumes silence to be a British trait. Mostly, though, it’s all about how much America sucks and how terribly dangerous it all is.

I would never presume to say one country was better than the other, and I would definitely never, in a million years, go Brit-bashing. That’s stupid. When I first started hanging out with a lot of my English friends, a few were apprehensive about me and the other study abroad students. Apparently, there were a couple Americans here last semester (though thankfully gone now) that spent nearly every conversation telling the Britons that their country, culture, and heritage was terrible and all that mattered was America. Not only is this horribly offensive and patently untrue, it makes me wonder why they even bothered to study abroad in the first place, and what they could’ve possibly gotten out of it other than padding for their resumes. I’m here to experience English life, all of it, even parts that I might not necessarily like or agree with, and I definitely won’t pass judgement. I actually really like England, London especially, and can’t imagine how anyone can go on and on about how much they believe it sucks. Then they just hadn’t experienced enough of it. Oh, sure, I’ll complain about how it shuts down early here, but that’s because it prevents me from seeing MORE of London, not because I just feel like complaining. Why make fun of a city you voluntarily signed up for living in? Especially when that city actually is pretty cool, if you’re open-minded enough to give it a chance, like London is? I just don’t understand, and likely never will.

Every day here I find myself getting a little bit more used to my surroundings. For the first month or so, I’d inwardly geek out every time an English person spoke, reveling in the different accent. Now I don’t even notice. I find it perfectly natural for buses to have an upper deck, and always check to see which tube lines are closed for the weekend. There’s still a gap between America and England in my mind, and likely there always will be, but it’s steadily closing as the semester wears on. Hearing about events back home, sometimes I can’t help but wonder what’s more foreign now- the English events going on in my front yard or the American events far away, spanning an ocean and significant time difference. The distance between the train and platform may still be far, but sometimes you just have to leap across it, ready for whatever’s on the other side. Mind the gap.

Lost In Translation

Ok, I finally did it. I bit the bullet, brought myself to do something I should’ve done a long, long time ago.

I watched American Werewolf in London- the movie.

And dear god, is there a lot of naked.

I could see that this wasn’t the cinematic masterpiece I had been fooled into expecting. While it’s a classic (and I’m talking about the one from the 80’s, by the way, that I didn’t know was a remake), I can’t for the life of me figure out why. Ok, I like John Landis. I think he’s a good director. He did Animal House, and while that didn’t exactly seem to require much skill, it has still entered the annals of time as a comedic milestone. And of course, he did two videos with Michael Jackson, one being “Black or White,” with revolutionary face-morphing technology, and the other being “Thriller,” which is just revolutionary, period. By all accounts he seems like a decent guy, even funny.

But this was a terrible movie.

Within the first few minutes I can see why none of the actors ever really did anything else. They suck. I’ve seen better acting in local car commercials. While at first it seemed promising, with a wolf attack out of the gate, I was disappointed that the only character I even really liked died, and only appeared as a decomposing corpse. Then things start getting very, very naked. Like, legit, nudity galore. At least in the new Wolfman movie, Benicio Del Toro shifts with his clothes on (though, after recently seeing that, it’s not really the greatest movie in the world either). And Twilight’s gotta keep it PG-13, so Taylor Lautner’s not doffing it all (not that there wouldn’t be a demand, just saying). But, legit, you see the main character’s you-know-what about every ten minutes. It’s almost like John Landis just sort of gave up on looking for an actually good actor and just settled for someone who doesn’t mind baring it all. Not ok with it.

So while the movie has gone on to become a cult classic, that doesn’t necessarily mean it was good in the first place. I probably should have seen the film before naming my blog after it, but seriously, this is the best name I could think of. Therefore, I’m keeping the name, mostly because it’s embedded in the very URL, but also cause, well, it’s a cool name. Just, hopefully better than its namesake. With definitely less naked.

Anyways, a word about this blog. Because I’m just THAT dedicated, I carry a notebook around with me everywhere. It’s compact and silver, with the Jorvik Viking Center’s logo on it (the only good thing about the conference was the free notebook, sadly, as you can read about in my last post). Most of it is unintelligible, even to me, because my handwriting’s just that bad, but that’s fine cause it’s intended for my eyes only. I take notes on all sorts of things, from quotes some of my friends might say that I may think are really cool, documenting certain moments that I may want to remember, and, like a total 14 year old, possibly just venting.

Mostly, though, it’s for the blog. So, for your reading pleasure (all two of you who may be reading this right now), here’s another list of Things British People Say That Americans Don’t, collected from the past month or so of listening and note-taking.

Things I’ve Had To Learn To Say To Fit In Even Though I Sound Like A Pretentious Douchenozzle (And Some Might Be Repeats Cause I’m Too Lazy To Check)

1. Lift- Elevator. No one says elevator. They’re all lifts. This is really the only instance the American word for an object sounds better than the British word. I find myself mentally saying it all the time, as in when I’m thinking “Oof, the room I have to get to is on the sixth floor? Screw that, I’m taking the lift.
2. Cashpoint- I’m not really sure if this is just one word or two, but I’m condensing it here. In the US we call it an ATM, though in the Milwaukee area (and certain select other areas of the country) we call it a Tyme machine, mostly because A) it’s a cooler name, B) it stands for Take Your Money Everywhere, and C) that’s the original name, so suck it. But anyways, in London it’s cashpoint, and I’ve also gotten into the habit of saying that. Though if you go North, to York and beyond, they call an outdoors ATM a Hole in the Wall. Which led to much confusion on my York trip, since I generally think of a hole in the wall as something you’d want to avoid.
3. xx- This isn’t really something you say out loud, but it’s definitely something you write. Pretty much every text/facebook message from an English person to their friends ends in xx, as in kisses, and sometimes you’ll get an o in there too. I think the only person back home I’ve ever received x’s and o’s from would be my mom, since it’s just not at all common in the US and generally regarded as cheesy. However, in the UK, it’s nearly mandatory to end messages in it, or otherwise you clearly hate that person. I’ve gotten text messages as mundane as “Anne, are you on your way back to unlock the door?” ending in “xx.” I’m trying to get into the habit, cause I think it’s kinda nice, but I feel like an idiot.
4. Trousers- As I’ve said before in another blog post, trousers means pants because pants means underwear. And you really, really don’t want to get those confused. I have said “Argh, I’ve got a stain on my pants” and gotten at best an awkward silence and at worst straight-up guffawing accompanied by absolute disgust for a perceived overshare. However, I meant trousers, just to clear the air there.
5. Uni- I don’t go to “college,” I go to “university,” and for short that means I’m a uni student. It’s so ubiquitous I’ve even used it to describe people back home, like saying that my sister’s in her first year of uni instead of that she’s a college freshman at Sarah Lawrence. I still feel like a douchebag for saying uni though.
6. Quid- it means pounds, as in the currency. Something might be thirty quid. It’s like how we say fifty bucks (which I still say here by mistake) except a quid sounds like something you’d find in Harry Potter.
7. Fiver, tenner, etc- A pound note denomination. We’ll just say a ten dollar bill, but here they say it’s a tenner. Though I have heard some Americans use it in relation to American currency, I haven’t nearly as much as I do here. It’s sort of a dumb thing to notice, but I tend to notice the weird stuff, so there you go.
8. Film- this isn’t a new word to Americans. That would be stupid. But in England you don’t go to the theater to see a movie, you go to the cinema to see a film. I’ve always grown up thinking that only really classy, artistic movies could be considered films- like, Amelie is a film (one I still haven’t finished, cause I’m lame and don’t like subtitles). Britney Spears’ Crossroads, though I’m sure there are some people out there who would vouch for its excellence (and I’m equally sure those are people I don’t really want to hang out with), would never, ever be considered a film in the US. In England, however, it is, as is every movie ranging from Hot Rod to High School Musical. This is partially why English people sound so smart all the time.
9. Slag- Skank, slut, whatever. We all have words for the same thing- a promiscuous woman. I prefer the old-fashioned “hussy” myself, but here the word of choice is slag. The entire word just sounds icky to me, which I guess is the point. It still sounds weird when my roommate asks if her outfit looks “too slaggy” since I still think a part of my brain just refuses to accept it as a real word. Oh, and the outfit in question wasn’t. For the really odd people who want to know.
10. Half Nine- or half eight, half ten, whatever. Half nine is 9:30, in case for whatever reason you thought all the English were super mathletes who just randomly told time by dividing all number by two.
11. Chicken Tikka Marsala- I have no idea if that’s spelled right. England LOVES Indian food. Even York was full of Indian restaurants. I had only had Indian food once before coming out here, and that was at a Desi Chai event and I was too freaked out to really eat much of it. Otherwise, the first proper time I had Indian food was when Kim and Mia visited and we ate it in Piccadilly Circus at about 1 AM. I’m now pretty much in love with chicken curry. Chicken Tikka Marsala actually isn’t technically Indian, but rather created by English people to seem Indian. Granted, most of the Chinese food in the US and other parts of the Western world is unknown in China, but this is sort of weird to me. McDonald’s in the UK sells chicken tikka and now they’re even marketing it to India of all places as an English-y dish. I haven’t had it yet, mainly cause I’m like the fussiest person ever (seriously, I don’t even like cheese, and that’s just one of many, many examples).
12. Wee- as in, to urinate. I know, it’s a little lowbrow, even for this blog. But there’s just something about hearing someone in their twenties say they need to wee, a phrase my little half-siblings don’t even use and they’re toddlers.
13. Shag- since we’re on the topic of lowbrow, anyone who’s seen Austin Powers knows what shag means. And yes, English people do actually use it in all seriousness.
14. Queue- To stand in line, or the line itself. You’re not looking for the end of the line when you’re outside a club, you’re looking for the end of the queue.
15. Lovely- No one in the US says lovely, unless you’re over the age of 80 and referring to flowery doilies or the outfits you knit for your cats. Here, it’s a common adjective, used to describe people mostly. It truly is a great word, and I think under-appreciated in America.

Ok, so those were things I have to say in England so people will understand me, but I still sound like a weirdo whenever I say them. Here’s another, similar list:

Things I Say As An Obnoxious American That My English Friends Can’t Say Without Sounding Like Douchebags (Or At The Very Least They Can’t Say Very Often)

1. Douchebag- While calling someone a douche exists, sort of, it’s not nearly as common as it is in the US and definitely not all the different variations. Douchebag happens to be my favorite insult, but here they prefer worse words.
2. Crapshoot- My roommate and I were out shopping for a coat the other day and she mentioned going to a charity shop to find one. “Well, it’d be cheap, but actually finding a good coat would be such a crapshoot” I replied. She had no idea what I was talking about. I even tried to explain- a crapshoot means it’s sort of a one in a million chance, a small possibility, but either way, I was reminded about how stupid the phrase sounds in the first place. I mean, crapshoot? Even if you assume it’s about shooting the fish, like I do, it still sounds odd, and shooting the other type of crap makes it downright disgusting.
3. Legit- I actually never said legit until I moved out East, when Kim would say it all the time. I haven’t said the word legitimate since. Legit is such a versatile word, and has become my stand-in for “like,” sounding vaguely less Valley Girl. People here, on the other hand, make fun of me for saying it all the time, which is legit not cool.
4. Soda- In England soda is literal, as in the soda water we have back home. If they want a coke, they say they’re getting a coke. If they want a diet coke, they say they’re getting a diet coke. I can’t help but say “Oh hey guys, I’m going to the store to get some soda,” and have everyone look at me funny. Everyone looks at me funny a lot, here, actually. Maybe I should take the hint.
5. Flip Your Shit- Meaning, to Americans, to freak out, no one says that here. The first time I said it my friends were like, “Flip your what? And why?”
6. Strike Out- Maybe because it’s a baseball reference. When I texted a friend of mine that I saw someone strike out at a party, I got a text asking for a translation. I had to explain that it meant that the person in question was rejected. Personally, I love that phrase.

Then there are other things that get lost in translation. I’m getting used to the accent, but sometimes it fails me, and I have to ask people to repeat things all the time. I’m sure it’s supremely annoying, hearing my uncouth “What?” after every other sentence, but I legitimately have trouble understanding sometimes. One example was the other night. A friend turned and asked me what sound like, “Do you have a palmenta at home?”

“Huh?” I replied, “What’s a palmenta?” assuming it’s one of those distinctly British things like Marmite or Eastenders.

“Palenta?”

“Huh? Like the food? Isn’t that a food?” My confusion was growing.

“No, a belenda.”

“Um...” I knew I was being annoying, and I could feel everyone’s frustration growing. I was tempted just to nod my head and pretend that I could understand, but unsure what I would be nodding to. “Brenda? I don’t know any Brendas...”

Finally, my friend just heaved a massive sigh. “Dear god, Anne, a blendah, you know, what you make smoothies with, that sounds like this-” She then accompanied a spinning hand motion with a whirring, growling sound.

“Ohhh, a BLENDER. No, I don’t have one of those.”

“Jesus, Anne.”

This literally happens to me EVERY SINGLE DAY. I would like to take the time to apologize to everyone who I make repeat things all the time, which would likely be every single English person I’ve ever spoken to. Sorry about that.

There are also differences in phrases. In the US, you see someone you know, you ask “Hey, what’s up?” Here, the equivalent is “You alright?” For the first few weeks, I literally thought everyone just assumed I was depressed and about to cry all the time, since the only time you ask someone if they’re alright in the US is if they look like they’ve witnessed the brutal murder of a kitten. I even asked people, “What? Do I not look like I’m alright?” only to have them speak slowly to me like I was an idiot that I looked fine. Of course, sometimes “You alright?” can really actually mean, “Are you OK? Since you look like you just saw The Notebook.” In turn, whenever I see someone I know, I say, “Hey, what’s up?” It wasn’t until yesterday when one of my friends confronted me about it that I realized I was doing the exact same thing to my English friends as they were doing to me- you only ask people “what’s up?” around here if they seem terribly sad. I never thought “What’s up?” could be taken for “Who died?” when asked in random conversation before.

While I’ve been learning the English lingo, I have something embarrassing to admit. Sometimes I can feel my voice overcompensate for the lack of Americanness around me, and sometimes I say regional American things I’ve never, ever said before in my life. Here are some examples:

1. On line. Not in the internet sense, but as a replacement for “in line,” as in “are you on line for the bathroom?” This is a phrase only employed in New York City and the surrounding areas. Sure, at Fordham, I’d HEAR “on line” all the time, but even living there I never actually said it. Now, I’ve found myself actually saying it. Maybe it’s to make up for the queue confusion, but I honestly have no idea how a New York phrase I never actually said in New York has entered my vocabulary in London.
2. Yo. I’ve never said yo. I never thought I would ever actually say yo. I’m not cool enough to say yo ironically, and I’m not cool enough to say yo unironically. I’m not cool enough to say yo period, and I always thought I knew this. However, it’s slipped into my speech here, likely in the absence of yo in England itself.
3. Ya’ll. This is easily the worst and most embarrassing of every random phrase I’ve started saying. Ya’ll in and of itself isn’t embarrassing. In fact, said by the right people, it can be super endearing and adorable. However, I qualify in no way, shape, or form as the right kind of person to say ya’ll. I’m not Southern. I’ve never lived in the South. Besides going to Sanibel Island in Florida all my life, I’ve never really even been to the South, and Southwest Florida barely even counts as Southern, since it’s more like a warm enclave of the Midwest and East Coast, especially Sanibel/Captiva. I’ve never set foot in Texas, Georgia, Kentucky, or Mississippi. There is absolutely NO REASON ON EARTH for me to say ya’ll. So why do I say it? That’s the mystery. I’ve mostly caught myself, but for a couple brief weeks in February, ya’ll was my word of choice. Maybe I’m overcompensating. Maybe I’m just becoming an American stereotype, fulfilling what my English friends think an American should say and be. Either way, a Wisconsinite and New York transplant has absolutely no business whatsoever using phrases claimed by the South. It’s just... weird, and almost disrespectful to the people who really mean it.

That’s pretty much all I have for now. Language is fun for me, and the differences in dialect has always been one of my fave subjects, whether it’s between the East Coast and Midwest, New York and Wisconsin, or England and America. We all speak English, but it’s amazing how much we can’t always understand each other.

(Old) York State of Mind to London Calling

My little town blues... are melting away... I’ll make a brand new start of it, New York, New York...

Liza Minnelli’s voice pumped through my headphones. I sat in the tube, juggling my three bags, listening to my New York mix, even though I was in London. It wasn’t some random nostalgia trip that caused my New York-centricity. Nope. The reason I was listening wasn’t so much for NEW York...

I was going to OLD York. York the Original. York Senior. Elderly York.

And I was excited.

Back in November, not long after I found out I was accepted into my study abroad program, I was emailed by Arcadia a list of UK excursions I could apply to participate in. Some of them ranged from the boring (listening to people complain to the head of the British Opera) to the hardcore (mountain biking and diving in Wales... in February). I signed up for three- a night at the Comedy Store (which was awesome), a May Day excursion (obviously hasn’t happened yet) and then York, for the Jorvik Viking conference.

Why Anne, you may ask, why on earth would you go to a Viking conference in a smallish town in Northern England? Well, besides the fact that I’m an absolute freak, it actually does have something to do with my heritage. I’m half-Norwegian, and therefore, possibly half Viking. I’m also quarter German and quarter Irish, and ready to explore at least part of my heritage.

I got off the tube at King’s Cross, ready to board my train to York. After some searching (and a growing sense of frustration) I found my program and was surprised to see there were 12 students who actually chose the York trip. Their reasons ranged from “Hopefully chilling with some awesome Vikings” to “I just want to see the architecture” to “I’m just bored and this was something to do.” “Aren’t you guys excited for the historical stuff?” I asked, like the complete and utter nerd I am. I was met with shrugs.

The train to York only lasted about two and a half hours, and then there was a ten minute walk from the station to the hostel, a place optimistically named Ace Hotel. Seven of us crammed into one room while reading plaques on the walls that revealed the hostel used to be a nice house for a rich family in the 1800’s. Apparently our room was where they took their tea, though now instead of Georgian furniture it was furnished sparsely with metal bunk beds that creaked wickedly every time someone moved so much as a single toe. The first night I spent at the hostel, skyping with my parents to let them know I didn’t die in some freak accident on my way to York and then reading before calling it an early night. I was excited- we were supposed to attend the actual Viking conference tomorrow, and thoughts on Viking lore swirled in my head as I went to sleep.

We awoke early the next morning to a free breakfast of stale bread and pretty much nothing else. The sky was sunny and bright, especially for about 8 in the morning. Oh, yeah, did I mention that we had to wake up super early for this conference as well? We followed the group leaders through the “city” of York- through city is used pretty loosely and I generally just end up calling it a town- and I got my first real glimpse of the beautiful architecture and strong sense of history York is known for. Assuming, you know, it’s known for much of anything.

The Viking conference was in a local university, and we all grabbed seats near the top, taking up two rows in the lecture hall. Our group leaders ditched us the second we were safely at our destination and all checked in. Really, that should’ve been our first clue. But our main leader, when asked how the conference was supposed to be, claimed she heard it would be “fun, with humor but still very informative.” I knew we had a long day of speakers ahead of us, but I thought it’d be cool anyways. I legit thought we were going to hear stories of epic battles, massive discoveries, and interesting tidbits on day to day Viking life. I was geared up to learn about the sagas, their discovery of America, the sacking of Irish monasteries, and their influence on English history.

It was possibly one of the most boring things I’ve ever been to in my life. And I have a pretty high boring tolerance, too. I’ve never actually fallen asleep in a class before. I’ve come kinda close, like when your head starts to fall and you jerk yourself awake quickly. I stayed awake in driver’s ed, in boater’s ed, in every other boring lecture I’ve had to sit through. But for the first time ever, in my entire life, I fell asleep in the middle of a lecture. Multiple times.

Cause the lights would go down, and they’d bust out the powerpoint, and instead of talking about bloodshed and berserkers, they would talk about how they made a ride we still hadn’t seen yet. The Jorvik Viking Center is actually a ride, where you sit in a little dealie as it took you through a Viking village (more on that later). At the time, though, we knew next to nothing about the Jorvik Center, so listening to the history of it, and the differences in the animatronics throughout the years, wasn’t exactly a laugh riot. The guy would attempt to make jokes about different archeologists that everyone else in the room got but us. Oh, and by the way, we were the youngest people there, in a room of at least 50 people, by about 40 years. At one point I woke up just long enough to see that both of our rows were completely out, heads on the tables, drooling in our folded arms. By the time the second speech ended (on the archeological climate in Dublin, and how difficult it was to dig there for some reason), I knew it was pretty much over. I ditched it, and went out to explore York.

I’m a city girl, but I can appreciate smaller places, especially ones as steeped in history as York. As weird as it sounds, I couldn’t help but compare it New York, it’s cooler little brother. While Old York’s been around since pre-Roman times, complete with a column on display from 71 AD, New York’s super young. There’s a massive cathedral, York Minster, which on the outside resembles Westminster Abbey a lot, and was built around the same time.

Some people complain that Small Town America has a church on every corner, but even the most devout, dance-outlawed, conservative towns are beat by York, or at least York’s medieval incarnation. There are churches literally EVERYWHERE, and they’re all beautiful and hundreds of years old. I find most modern churches tacky and soulless, built of perfectly formed brownish gray stone, with the same kind of carpeted lobby and plush seats. I’m not a fan of modern churches, and with the lack of beauty or detail in our contemporary behemoths, you get the feeling most people aren’t either. But you can actually see the devotion of medieval people when it comes to their places of worship- instead of mass-produced tile and generic stained glass, they put some effort into making places pretty. I’m not making any comments on organized religion (I make it a habit not to discuss it, unless I feel close to you), but you can at least tell how people have felt throughout the ages by the sheer amount of energy they expound on their places of worship.

York is big on their local heros, no matter how weird some of these characters might seem. Any Shakespeare fan is likely familiar with his play, Richard III, though as a lazy student, even in the throes of IB, I never actually read it (how do I pass school again?). I am, however, a freakish history buff, and therefore have some knowledge on the real Richie. Turns out he never had a humpback, like Shakespeare apparently asserted, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a bad guy. History’s technically up to debate on this one, but here are the facts:

His older bro, Eddie IV, died, which is unfortunate enough, but he died with two young sons, which is even worse. Now-Edward V was only 12. Even though it was a simpler age, where major hobbies consisted of not dying of plague, starvation, or otherwise, that doesn’t mean that the average 12 year old was all that more responsible than your run of the mill, video game playing 12 year old boy today. My brother’s 14 and I wouldn’t trust him with a gerbil, much less an entire country, and the powers-that-be in England in 1483 tended to agree. So they appointed Uncle Richie to the post of Lord Protector, with the caveat that he can rule England until Eddie can be trusted not to abuse his kingly powers by making everyone mock fight each other with light sabers or something for his own entertainment.

There was one little thing, though. Turns out Eddie’s dad kinda sorta married his mom while already married to this other woman, which would make Eddie and his little brother illegitimate, and therefore unable to rule. Uncle Richie, instead of, you know, fighting for his little nephew’s rights, realized that hey, wait a minute, he’s the next one in line for the throne after these two little brats. So, come July, the poor kids were declared illegit, and Lord Protector Uncle Richie became King Richie. The boys had been living in the Tower of London, which, despite it’s rough history, is actually a traditional place for kings to live before they get their crowns. Unfortunately, unlike most kings and princes, they never left. After a month of Richie getting his crown, the boys were never seen again. Most historians agree he probably had them killed, which make Richard a Dick by any name.

Richie got his in the end. Henry Tudor later became King Henry VII (oh yeah, he’s the serial wife-killer’s daddy) by leading a rebellion against Richie and getting him killed in the Battle of Bosworth Field. Richie is therefore the last English king to die in battle, and the last Plantagenet king.

So, why is York gaga enough for him to dedicate an ENTIRE MUSEUM to his memory? Turns out Richard, before he or his brother were kings, held the title Duke of York. He ended up controlling all of Northern England, and as king poured a ton of money into the region, most of all in their unofficial capital York. There are multiple buildings that owe their existence, or at least major improvements, to Richard, and he’s well-regarded in the area still since he was so good to them.

I’ve been to a lot of museums in my life, some of them weird, some of them pretty standard, but I’ve never been to one like the Richard III Museum. Most museums try to stay unbiased, or at least give that appearance. Not so much Richard III, which basically was an act of PR claiming that Richard, the most powerful man in the country of England, actually had absolutely NOTHING to do with the princes’ deaths, and in fact didn’t even realize they were gone. They were only his nephews and potential political rivals, and it was only his job to know everything they did, but, you know, I’m sure it was one of those things were he turned his back for ONE SECOND and they disappeared. It happens to the best of us, right? Sorry, but it’s hard for me to believe he didn’t have anything to do with their deaths. It’s just too far-fetched.

Not that the Richard III Museum doesn’t try. You first walk into the gift shop, where you’re confronted with a life-sized wax figure of the guy, with his dead eyes staring at you. Then you walk up some narrow steps, only to be confronted with ANOTHER life-sized wax Richie, this one even creepier than the last. Then they have pictures of his wax figure everywhere, with little things taped to it like he’s saying them, saying stuff like “I’m not the monster everyone thinks I am!” and “I loved my nephews!” and other random things he likely never said ever in real life. Posters give “evidence” of his innocence, demonizing Shakespeare of all people along the way for his hunchbacked portrayal of Richie. The entire museum feels bitter and defensive on the whole, as if daring you to spit on Richie’s corpse or something. There are portraits of him all over the place, clearly painted by modern artists who apparently have nothing better to do with their time. I was the only person there for about a half hour, and then two old people came in briefly.

I recommend it 100% to literally everyone. It’s sort of a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Here’s the site: http://www.richard3museum.co.uk/main.html

After my Richard III field trip, I walked around a bit more and eventually found myself back at the hostel, where I slept until later that night, when we all decided to go out and explore York’s nightlife. We all ended up piling into one pub, before switching to another where we met an English couple from the area, both with undefinable ages. The guy looked a little like Fall Out Boy’s Andy Hurley, while the woman looked ultra hip, with a Sienna Miller t-shirt and leather pants she “hadn’t worn since the 80’s.” By this time both were clearly drunk, but of course extremely friendly. “Guess how old I am,” Sienna Miller Shirt asked, “just guess, and be COMPLETELY honest...” Guesses ranged from 25 to 32. Turns out she was the ripe age of 41, when she revealed the 80’s comment. Her boyfriend? 27. Talkative, she dominated every conversation.

“Oh, you’re 20? 20’s a great age to be, a great age,” she remarked, “Although I guess not in the States. Have you been to New York? I LOVE New York!” She pointed to her boyfriend and stage-whispered “He hated it. Thought it was disgusting.”

“I did not!” English Andy Hurley interrupted. “I just thought it was dirtier than here. Too fast for me. And the people were rude.” I can definitely see where he’s coming from. In Old York, people were generally friendly and polite, especially in the pubs. Cynically I thought at first it was just because they appreciated our tourist dollars, but I could soon see a lot of it was genuine. New York is a great place to live, but people will mow you down to get ahead, and can be ruthless. I guess all big cities are like that, but in London people give up train and bus seats for the elderly. In New York there’s no such consideration. It was soon apparent that the differences between Old and New York were growing by the minute.

The next day we woke up early once again, this time to explore the Jorvik Viking Center. It’s an Epcot-like ride that takes you through the recreated Viking village of Jorvik, with an omniscient voice narrating what you were seeing every step of the way. It’s recreated to smell like it was supposed to back in the day, the day in question being about 1000 years ago, so it smelled a little like rotting meat and human waste. The village was overall pretty realistic, not like most of us would really know otherwise, but the creepiest things, again, were the life-sized figures.

Only this time, the figures were animatronic, and could move and “speak.” People should really learn by now that no matter how much effort you put into reconstructing people, it will never, ever look right. Inevitably, all life-sized fake humans end up looking dead, with glassy eyes and jerky movements. You’d be sitting in the ride when a blonde fake guy would jerk his head towards you, menacingly raise an arm in your direction, and start talking to you in what sounded like gibberish. Then the omniscient voice would kick in, and explain that the guy’s name is Olaf or something, and he’s asking you if you want to buy a fish. Then the disembodied voice would have a conversation with Olaf about what a nice day it was, with the narrator translating what they were saying every so often.

I wondered if they were really planning a coordinated attack on the modern breathers in the car thing. We couldn’t understand what they were saying, and in the end Olaf would jerk his head back and ignore you as the omniscient voice would go on to tell you about how Vikings cooked or something. At one point, the ride stooped to a low I didn’t think an educational tour ever would- we came upon an animatronic guy sitting on a latrine, clearly straining at you-know-what, and then yelling in his ancient language for us to go away. The omniscient voice, when translating that last bit, actually had the indecency to be surprised that the Viking would want some privacy in this moment. Overall, it was a place that I would never want to be in after dark, in the event of a Night At The Museum-esque awakening, only instead of a kindly Theodore Roosevelt giving out advice, these were Viking zombies that wouldn’t hesitate in eating you.

Overall, I really liked the Jorvik museum, creepy animatronics aside. It was informative with an awesome gift shop, and one of the few things we got to do for free that was actually worth doing.

After Jorvik I headed on over to the York Castle Museum. On my way over I noticed couples being all romantic, a lot of people brandishing roses and giggling maniacally, as they had lost all sense of reason. I wondered if there was something in York’s water that just made people oddly love-dovey, until it hit me.

It was Valentine’s Day.

Of course I forgot Valentine’s Day. It’s not really high on my list of priorities. I care more about President’s Day than I do about Valentine’s Day. I was too caught up in learning about marauding Vikings and later in the day, executions in an old prison to care too much about the Day of Love. I’m not going to use this space to go off on Valentine’s Day, since every argument for and against it has been made before, I just think that my Valentine’s Day, dedicated, as it was, to the darker side of human nature, was probably the best one I’ve ever had, and superior to all of yours, no matter what you did. So... there you go.

I did spend the rest of the day in an old prison, learning about execution methods and Yorkshire crime. For me, that’s a day well-spent. Suddenly I found myself yearning for home, surprising myself, yet again (I’m easily surprised, apparently), at exactly what I was referring to as “home” inside my head. It wasn’t New York, and it definitely wasn’t Wisconsin, but rather, I realized that I just wanted to go back to London, and instead of calling it “Hampstead” or “the dorm” or whatever, I just thought “I want to get home and see if anyone’s hanging out in the kitchen and maybe get to the Blue Post and really just see my friends.”

Because that’s what home is to me, for the time being at least. It’s weird how much one place can become such a part of you so quickly, and London’s definitely gotten under my skin, in a good way. A city by itself can’t do that, at least not for me. What I’ve always looked for are human connections, making friends, finding comrades in this life. That’s far more important to me than seeing random cities and living out of a suitcase. People keep asking me why I haven’t traveled Europe more, or really at all, yet, and the fact of the matter is that I just like London too much. Having a great time with wonderful, witty people is far more important to me than checking Rome off my list of Places to See Before I Die. Because if we’re getting into the Before I Die lists, wouldn’t having a lovely time with worthy people count more than a checklist? Life’s all about what you feel, and I get more satisfaction at the same London bar we go to every week than I would having a lonely experience on my own just to see Prague or something, no matter how lovely I’m sure that city is. I guess my point is that I’m making this study abroad experience my own, and getting what I want out of it, even if it does mean I’m not necessarily living the jetset life I’m “supposed to.”

I spent the train ride from York sitting alone, staring out into the dark, counting the minutes until I got home. London’s calling indeed.

I turn my camera on

I’m a terrible blogger, I know.

When I started this blog, I thought, “Oh, hey, I’ll update this every couple of days, maybe even every other day, and keep my writing skills sharp while updating whoever cares about my record of London.” The wishful “every other day” ended up being mostly maybe once a week, and now it’s been two weeks since I last updated. It’s been awhile.

I guess my only crime is that life has gotten in the way of writing time. I’m way behind on uploading facebook pictures as well, and we all know how rarely THAT happens. And if you don’t know, then, well, why are you reading this? You clearly have never met me before.

I secretly love it when my worlds collide. semi-subconsciously, I divide my life into neat little compartments- there are my grade school friends, all the way from St. Mary’s Elm Grove, my high school friends of Catholic Memorial, my college friends at Fordham Lincoln Center, and now my British friends, affectionately dubbed by me to anyone who’ll listen as simply “The Brits.” There are little variations and subgroups within these distinctions- First Stage friends, IB friends, college-friends-not-from-Fordham, and many more, but those are the major groups. Ever since I made that first major leap from grade school to high school, with a whole new cast of characters along the way, I’ve always loved it when people from one group met people from the other. It’s almost like a social experiment- I love these people from group X and I love these people from group Y, let’s stick them in a room together and see what happens.

Getting people from different arenas to meet is always super exciting. When high school-slash-IB-slash-Wisconsin friend Britni came to visit me in New York I was absolutely ecstatic. It ended up being super awesome, with me able to show someone from one sphere of my life around another sphere, jumbling my world a bit more along the way.

So when Kim and Mia, friends of mine from Fordham, visited a couple weeks ago, I was appropriately spazzing. It ended up being amazing. Facebook and the occasional skype chat are not enough to keep in touch adequately, and I was excited to hear a Fordhamite’s opinion on my current life. They motivated me to actually get off my butt and see London, too, forcing me to finally see Buckingham Palace, Abbey Road, and the slightly more lowbrow Platform 9 3/4 of Harry Potter fame, well-known stops to any American. I didn’t even feel bad about being such a tourist- taking cheesy touristy photos alone is kind of depressing, but with other Americans, collectively geeking out? Completely normal.

It was great seeing Kim and Mia react to London for the first time- neither had been before. Starting from the second they stepped off the train from Paris at St. Pancras (changed to St. Pancreas, the patron saint of forgotten organs, for easier pronunciation purposes), I got to see a glimpse of what I was surely like when I landed in Heathrow. Except with one minor difference...

“‘Toilets!’ ‘Way out!’ Ooooh ‘Metropolitan line!’” Kim was basically ecstatic, reading out every sign we passed in the train station. I glanced at Mia, silently asking for an explanation for Kim’s seemingly abrupt-onset literate Tourrettes.

I got a sigh as an answer. “She’s been doing this the entire train ride. Excited to finally speak English.” After a few weeks in Paris, the language difference my friends faced had already started to get to them. I was lucky- I went to England, our language motherland. Kim and Mia had been in Paris, speaking French with people who could tell they were American in a single word’s accent and treat them with the deference they used whenever interacting with Americans on their home turf- complete and utter disdain. I could understand roughly 95% of what I my friends and professors said, and what I didn’t they were more than happy to help me understand (see: previous blog, difference between lorry and semi). French people, on the other hand, expected you to speak perfectly unaccented French at all times. Mia filled me in on all of this as we walked to ticket booth to buy Oyster cards, all to a soundtrack of Kim reading, “‘Circle line’ ‘Tube Map!’ Oh, hey, this is a good one- ‘Hammersmith and City!’”

I take for granted the similarities between England and the US, and how easy I’ve had it here to adjust to a new country. I mean, there’s occasional culture shock, don’t get me wrong. But mostly? It’s been pretty fricking easy.

Sometimes I get lulled into a false sense of security when it comes to my simple transition from New York to London. When we first arrived, my program went on and on about pick-pockets- “Watch your stuff at all times! Don’t carry valuables around with you! Pick-pocketing is worse here than in the US.” I only half listened. Sure, I thought, I know about crime. I go to school in New York City. And yeah, technically, when it comes to crime rates, NYC is on the same level as little Mormon Provo, Utah, but still. I’ve heard about people getting their stuff stolen in both NYC and Wisconsin. Mostly it was from mistakes- people leaving their laptops in the caf while they ran to grab something in the dorm, or not watching their purses in a crowded restaurant. I thought I was smarter than that. I never leave my purse unattended, and I always carry my Freddie bag, zipped all the way shut, tight under my arm. On their second night in London I dragged Kim and Mia to Fabric, one of the hottest clubs in the city, along with my English friend Chris. For awhile it seemed like we were having a good time, dancing, watching Kim get hit on by sketchy boys who told her they loved her but “only a little bit.” Then I noticed my purse was unzipped, and a quick check revealed one of my biggest nightmares had come true.

My camera was stolen.

I was devastated. I knew about the trouble I would eventually be in for being stupid enough to allow that to happen. I felt terrible for asking my friends to leave, though eternally grateful that they did, even though Chris was there to see a friend of his DJ and ended up missing it. I still appreciate my friends so much for staying with me that night, even when they really didn't have to.

There’s probably no possession I’m more associated with, besides possibly my kindle, than my camera. It’s practically attached to my hand. I love taking pictures. Not in some artsy way- though I did do photography for IB Art, but that was mostly a combination of not having any drawing skills whatsoever and being equally bad at chemistry that forced me into it.

Pictures capture a moment. Life is so fleeting, it’s worth having a way to document the really awesome times you get to spend with the people you love. My manic photography was born out of my inherent awkwardness at parties. Without it, I’d be the girl in the corner, fidgeting and biting my nails. With it, I’m still fidgeting and biting my nails, only now I actually have an excuse to talk to people. My camera’s an automatic conversation starter, enabling me to go up to anyone and ask for a snapshot of a moment of their lives. No one wants to hang out with the weird girl in the corner. But at the same time, no one questions the weird girl with the camera. I mean, sure, I get flack for it. People might say, “Why take so many pictures when we’ll remember what happened anyways?” But the thing is, we won’t. Memories fade and die. But pictures can live forever in the virtual world of facebook. Sometimes my picture-taking gets annoying, but mostly people are overwhelmingly glad that someone recognizes that some moments are important and worth documentation. An added bonus to my photography is that I’m actually in pictures- when other people have cameras, I tend to be the one left out of photos. But when it’s my camera, I can control when I’m in a photo and when I’m not. My picture library is vitally important to me, reminding me that I have friends and am loved, if only for the span of a shutter’s click.

My pictures organize my life as well. I can tell the difference between awesome times spent in Milwaukee and New York and London. They help me remember why I love it when that world collision happens in the first place.

Which is why, the next weekend, I totally had my camera with me at the Waterfront, King’s College’s bar, on Superbowl night. I still can’t quite wrap my head around my school having its own bar, just floors above where we take classes, and then profiting off sanctioned drunkenness. My dorm has one as well, but no one ever goes cause it’s lame. The lower drinking age has many perks, and hey, even helps the economy.

Let me get one thing straight: I hate sports. I don’t like playing them. I don’t like watching them. I hate how a lot of schools divert money from educational programs and the arts, things that actually stimulate your mind, in support of their students running around after a ball, hurting each other. But even I couldn’t miss English uni students watching the most probably the most American event of the year- the Super Bowl.

The massive screens strategically placed around the Waterfront were all tuned into the same channel, which featured English people narrating the game, their accents completely out of place amongst the American football game (which I’m just going to call football, since it’s easier than mentioning the American part all the time). Though it’s my home country, I couldn’t for the life of me name the teams playing- I just knew neither were the Green Bay Packers, my home team, or had Brett Favre, possibly the greatest traitor in sports history. We ordered a round and settled in. I turned to an English friend who’d been there, watching, the entire time. “What’s going on?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Just a girlier version of rugby.” The English consensus is that Americans are weak wussies who would rather wear helmets and safety gear while beating the crap out of each other than die from a sports-related injury. Only a couple English people I know actually had ever seen a football game, since apparently a couple teams played an exhibition at Wembley Stadium not long ago. Other than that? The English were absolutely clueless.

I immediately tuned out the game and concentrated on hanging out with my friends, marveling at how obviously the Waterfront had tried to “Americanize” the event. Plastic menus boasted “Real American Superbowl Party Food,” of soggy hot dogs, chicken wings, and “french fries” used instead of the English “chips.” American flag streamers were strung across the entire bar, marking the most stars and stripes I’ve seen since the Fourth of July. The place was absolutely packed, though people filtered out as the night went on, as the game didn’t end in England until about 3 AM. Roughly half the crowd seemed to be American, and I found myself surprised at how much my accent was thrown around, after being so used to hearing English slang. The Brits tended to throw on any t-shirts they owned that were vaguely American themed, and I noticed sweatshirts emblazoned with Fort Myers, Seattle, Philadelphia, and even a random Vancouver, as if the wearer thought he was fine as long as he stayed at least on the same continent.

It was, in a word, surreal. We sang English drinking songs, including one about wanting to be a “London Ranger” and another that detailed the myriad double entendres you can buy at a Chicago department (which, having actually BEEN to multiple Chicago department stores, I can say are all unavailable) while watching the frickin Superbowl. Ironically the half-time show was The Who, likely the most English of all bands that still actually perform, even if that doesn’t necessarily mean they perform WELL.

So which team did we root for? I didn’t really care either way, and you can bet the English didn’t. The bar generally went up in cheers anytime anyone else randomly started cheering, so both teams were rooted for whenever they scored. Indianapolis’ main downfall, however, was their lack of a catchy tune. Someone finally realized that one of the teams was called the Saints and hailed from New Orleans. Every few seconds someone would start singing that fricking song, dancing on the tables, shouting loudly “Oh when the Saints! Go marching in!” with the same part on repeat. A couple Americans who were actually legit New Orleans fans egged on the English singers, clearly overjoyed at the prospect of international New Orleans fans. Sadly for those Americans, I can pretty much vouch that it wasn’t the team. It was all the song.

A few days later, I found myself geeking out over America again when we went to a T.G.I. Friday’s. I never considered Friday’s a distinctly American restaurant- granted, I tend not to think of it much anyways- but apparently here it basks in its allegiance to the USA. The entire restaurant was an homage to Americana, decorated with license plates from Nebraska, Florida, and California, plus signs for baseball’s World Series (featuring the Dodgers when they were from Brooklyn) and a picture of the Fonz, “Aaaayy”-ing out from a framed photo. Remarkably, there was only one major nod to American football, one team that got a shout-out above all the rest.

Oh yes. The Green Bay Packers.

It’s impossible to grow up in Wisconsin and not love the Packers. I mean, I guess it is, but you would never, ever ADMIT to it, you’d likely be mobbed. The Packers are so Wisconsin it must hurt. Everyone, including me, an avowed sports-hater, tries to make the pilgrimage to Lambeau, and the streets are empty when a game’s on. At my strict Catholic grade school, we got days off from wearing a uniform on Packers days as long as we wore something green or gold, their colors. I can practically hear that strong Wisconsin accent, talking about drinking a beer while grilling brats outside in negative-fahrenheit weather, extolling the virtues of Vince Lombardi, a coach who died decades ago. You can’t separate Wisconsin from the Packers, nor vice versa, and I can’t help but smile whenever I see those familiar colors on a jersey or t-shirt outside of the state, whether in New York or London. When flying out of O’Hare, I was even happy to see someone wearing a Packers sweatshirt as they boarded a flight to frickin Kuwait.

So yeah. I got a little excited. Just, don’t ask to see the picture. This was one time my camera failed me, and captured the wrong moment.

I hope my worlds continue to collide, with Wisconsin, New York, and London getting exceedingly enmeshed, jumbling to form the picture that is me. I’m the sum of my parts, which means I was made in Wisconsin, more fully formed in New York City, and starting to take a definite shape in London. I need all these spheres to be me.