(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.

"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.