My American friends at York:
The summary of my time in England:
Friday, June 22, 2007
A picture is worth a thousand words
The Nouse crew in all our glory (I'm on the bottom):
My American friends at York:
The summary of my time in England:
My American friends at York:
The summary of my time in England:
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Weekend trip to Edinburgh
In all my "I'm leaving in two weeks and therefore must begin to freak out" mode, I forgot to mention the weekend trip I took to Edinburgh last weekend! I was actually pretty shocked that Genevieve and I managed to pull it off—we booked tickets and hostels at the last minute, and Genevieve is usually gone during the weekend to see her boyfriend in London. I'm usually sleeping in my room or wandering around York. So the fact that we got our shit together to make it up there was pretty impressive.
We left Saturday morning, which is the only way to do it. The most important thing I have learned about public transportation in England is this: don't try to travel on a Friday afternoon/night or a Sunday afternoon/night. Trains are CRAMMED with people, and I don't mean every seat full—I mean people standing in the vestibules and aisles (most of the time at least half of the aisle is taken up by bodies). We weren't expecting much as the train trip to London is pretty boring (green field, green field, flowers), but WOW. The trip to Scotland is AMAZING. About halfway through, we saw a big blue expanse, which Genevieve realized first was the ocean. It had been so long since we had seen the ocean that we barely recognized it!
Of course, in England when there are oceans, there are also adorable little coastal towns. The one to top them all was right at the border between England and Scotland: Berwick-Upon-Tweed. I got out my guidebook (feeling quite touristy) and found out it was the part of the UK that had changed hands between Scotland and England the most times: a grand total of 13. No wonder! Even though it was foggy and cloudy, it had a huge river running into the center and an old arched bridge.
I didn't know it, but its beauty foreshadowed the things to come.
The streets of Edinburgh were so pretty. They reminded Genevieve and I of a larger York: still cobbled and old feeling, but a lot bigger and longer. It was lined with kitschy souvenir shops, even more than York. The main street (called the Royal Mile) had more restaurants than I had seen together in any city. Because Genevieve's friend David was coming the next day, we knew he wouldn't want to shop and ratted around vintage stores for the afternoon. We then took our obligatory afternoon siesta at the Starbucks and people-watched outside of the second floor window.
For some unknown reason, "outside the Starbucks" is the main hangout for the emo kids in Edinburgh (think My Chemical Romance, not Dashboard Confefssional), so most of our time was spent on the kids with long black hair falling into their eyes and skinny jeans so tight we wondered how they wriggled into them every morning. We made up a love triangle with two boys and a girl in the group and Genevieve developed a little crush on one of the boys, who she would have hit on, she said, if he wasn't 15 years old. It was great fun.
We ate dinner that day at Wannaburger, which (we didn't know it) was basically American. The milkshakes there were actual MILKSHAKES. For some reason, milkshakes in England are flavored milk—it's DISGUSTING. These had icecream in them, which brought us close to tears. And the burgers were also incredibly delicious. We weren't sure whether this was because they were actually that tasty or that the ones in England taste so sucky.
That night, we went out, but didn't have much luck. The first place was a fun little bar with live music, but it was small, hot and mostly made up of 30- and 40-year-olds. A very, very drunk Scottish guy tried to talk to us, but we had no idea what he was saying, partly because of his slurring and partly because of his accent. The next place we went (Finnegan's Wake—so we were in Scotland but at an Irish place... what?) This had a younger crowd, but one of the patrons was this creepy guy in a grey-striped sweater who instead of, I don't know, TALKING to Genevieve, pretended like he was trying to get by her by putting his hand on her back and pushing slightly. At first we just thought, "OK, he needs to get somewhere," but then he did it multiple times and even once when we were standing in the corner. There was NO WHERE TO GO. He just looked sort of confused and went back the way he came. We left. At our third bar, a nice Australian guy with bad teeth kind of fell down upon us and kept talking and talking. We excused ourselves and went back to the hostel, discouraged.
The next day, David came and took us to the Last Drop Inn, where they hung people. Next it was off to the Greyfriar's Bobby statue, a monument to the terrier this guy owned and when he died, Bobby came and slept at his grave every night for 14 years until he died. It was adorable and the statue looked like my old dog, a Cairn terrier named Hamish.
We walked to the castle on the hill, but it was £11 ($22). No freaking way. So we looked at it from the outside, then hiked in the parks around the castle. Walking up Princes St., David saw the sea (which looked incredibly far away) and decided he wanted to go there. We kept getting lost and every Scottish person that we asked (including this red-haired lady with a little red-haired kid) told us it was way too far and we should give up. After about 45 minutes, a riverside walk and a Royal Botanical Garden later, we made it (I couldn't quite believe it).
We sat on a stone wall and watched the water and talked for a little bit, then walked down a mile-long pier there. Of course, being so far outside of the city center, there were no other tourists, just fisherman who lived nearby who watched us with great amusement. It didn't help that I had a bag emblazoned with THE SCOTTISH EXPERIENCE and the Scottish flag on it (I turned it inside out). We got to a fishing shack where I guess they scored their gear and one of the old, crusty men jumped out at us, making me shriek, then burst into laughter as we all went a little red in the face.
At the end of the pier, we found 13-year-olds who were hiding from the adults and smoking. When they found out we came from California, they were so pleased. Their accents too were basically impossible to understand, but I managed to get that they were talking about how the man down the pier "gave us a fright." Love little phrases like that.
The next day, we walked to Arthur's Seat, a huge hill near the city. Originally it was just to see it, but David convinced us to walk halfway up. I got a little scared of the height, but not so for a little boy climbing with us who sat on the very edge and dangled his legs down the side of the 500-foot drop. Nerve-wracking to say the least.
We finished the visit with lunch at Elephant House, the cafe where J.K. Rowling wrote "Harry Potter." She used to buy one cup of coffee and make it last as long as possible because she couldn't afford another. Now she is richer than the Queen. Craziness! I spent the ride home on the train looping "Here Comes the Sun" on my iPod as it was sunny outside and I don't think I will ever take sun for granted again.
We left Saturday morning, which is the only way to do it. The most important thing I have learned about public transportation in England is this: don't try to travel on a Friday afternoon/night or a Sunday afternoon/night. Trains are CRAMMED with people, and I don't mean every seat full—I mean people standing in the vestibules and aisles (most of the time at least half of the aisle is taken up by bodies). We weren't expecting much as the train trip to London is pretty boring (green field, green field, flowers), but WOW. The trip to Scotland is AMAZING. About halfway through, we saw a big blue expanse, which Genevieve realized first was the ocean. It had been so long since we had seen the ocean that we barely recognized it!
Of course, in England when there are oceans, there are also adorable little coastal towns. The one to top them all was right at the border between England and Scotland: Berwick-Upon-Tweed. I got out my guidebook (feeling quite touristy) and found out it was the part of the UK that had changed hands between Scotland and England the most times: a grand total of 13. No wonder! Even though it was foggy and cloudy, it had a huge river running into the center and an old arched bridge.
I didn't know it, but its beauty foreshadowed the things to come.
The streets of Edinburgh were so pretty. They reminded Genevieve and I of a larger York: still cobbled and old feeling, but a lot bigger and longer. It was lined with kitschy souvenir shops, even more than York. The main street (called the Royal Mile) had more restaurants than I had seen together in any city. Because Genevieve's friend David was coming the next day, we knew he wouldn't want to shop and ratted around vintage stores for the afternoon. We then took our obligatory afternoon siesta at the Starbucks and people-watched outside of the second floor window.
For some unknown reason, "outside the Starbucks" is the main hangout for the emo kids in Edinburgh (think My Chemical Romance, not Dashboard Confefssional), so most of our time was spent on the kids with long black hair falling into their eyes and skinny jeans so tight we wondered how they wriggled into them every morning. We made up a love triangle with two boys and a girl in the group and Genevieve developed a little crush on one of the boys, who she would have hit on, she said, if he wasn't 15 years old. It was great fun.
We ate dinner that day at Wannaburger, which (we didn't know it) was basically American. The milkshakes there were actual MILKSHAKES. For some reason, milkshakes in England are flavored milk—it's DISGUSTING. These had icecream in them, which brought us close to tears. And the burgers were also incredibly delicious. We weren't sure whether this was because they were actually that tasty or that the ones in England taste so sucky.
That night, we went out, but didn't have much luck. The first place was a fun little bar with live music, but it was small, hot and mostly made up of 30- and 40-year-olds. A very, very drunk Scottish guy tried to talk to us, but we had no idea what he was saying, partly because of his slurring and partly because of his accent. The next place we went (Finnegan's Wake—so we were in Scotland but at an Irish place... what?) This had a younger crowd, but one of the patrons was this creepy guy in a grey-striped sweater who instead of, I don't know, TALKING to Genevieve, pretended like he was trying to get by her by putting his hand on her back and pushing slightly. At first we just thought, "OK, he needs to get somewhere," but then he did it multiple times and even once when we were standing in the corner. There was NO WHERE TO GO. He just looked sort of confused and went back the way he came. We left. At our third bar, a nice Australian guy with bad teeth kind of fell down upon us and kept talking and talking. We excused ourselves and went back to the hostel, discouraged.
The next day, David came and took us to the Last Drop Inn, where they hung people. Next it was off to the Greyfriar's Bobby statue, a monument to the terrier this guy owned and when he died, Bobby came and slept at his grave every night for 14 years until he died. It was adorable and the statue looked like my old dog, a Cairn terrier named Hamish.
We walked to the castle on the hill, but it was £11 ($22). No freaking way. So we looked at it from the outside, then hiked in the parks around the castle. Walking up Princes St., David saw the sea (which looked incredibly far away) and decided he wanted to go there. We kept getting lost and every Scottish person that we asked (including this red-haired lady with a little red-haired kid) told us it was way too far and we should give up. After about 45 minutes, a riverside walk and a Royal Botanical Garden later, we made it (I couldn't quite believe it).
We sat on a stone wall and watched the water and talked for a little bit, then walked down a mile-long pier there. Of course, being so far outside of the city center, there were no other tourists, just fisherman who lived nearby who watched us with great amusement. It didn't help that I had a bag emblazoned with THE SCOTTISH EXPERIENCE and the Scottish flag on it (I turned it inside out). We got to a fishing shack where I guess they scored their gear and one of the old, crusty men jumped out at us, making me shriek, then burst into laughter as we all went a little red in the face.
At the end of the pier, we found 13-year-olds who were hiding from the adults and smoking. When they found out we came from California, they were so pleased. Their accents too were basically impossible to understand, but I managed to get that they were talking about how the man down the pier "gave us a fright." Love little phrases like that.
The next day, we walked to Arthur's Seat, a huge hill near the city. Originally it was just to see it, but David convinced us to walk halfway up. I got a little scared of the height, but not so for a little boy climbing with us who sat on the very edge and dangled his legs down the side of the 500-foot drop. Nerve-wracking to say the least.
We finished the visit with lunch at Elephant House, the cafe where J.K. Rowling wrote "Harry Potter." She used to buy one cup of coffee and make it last as long as possible because she couldn't afford another. Now she is richer than the Queen. Craziness! I spent the ride home on the train looping "Here Comes the Sun" on my iPod as it was sunny outside and I don't think I will ever take sun for granted again.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
So far away
Since returning home from spring break, things have been a lot calmer... in both good ways and bad. I feel somewhat adjusted here and don't want to say, "Oh, look at how different and cute!" every minute. However, this does take some of the excitement out of life. You forget how fun it is to have every moment of the day be something new and different for you. I also think this is why I took such a long break from writing here--it felt comfortable and normal, rather than something I needed to tell people about right away to revel in its strangeness.
My two classes this term have been Modern Irish Poetry and Charles Dickens. I adore the latter, as I love the reading material and have a small crush on the professor (he is just so ENGLISH). At the start of term, I was convinced the MIP professor hated my guts, but she actually liked my essay I just got back and I am allowed to revise it for my final paper. All in all, I'm happy with these classes (even if I'm TERRIBLE at dissecting poetry).
Francie came to visit and enjoyed herself, as did Ann. I've helped put out another two issues of Nouse, one of which required one late night and an all-nighter to put out, but looked gorgeous, so it was worth it. I distributed the papers and everyone laughed at me that I was so nice about it, asking people if they wanted one instead of just shoving it in their face. I have eaten too much curry (the English word for all Indian food) and steak and ale pie. I went to see a movie in mid-May and when I got out of it, I wandered around York for two hours knowing how much I was going to miss it.
Currently, I feel like I have relapsed into how I felt at the start: ricocheting between loving this place (being in Nouse and wondering how I will ever leave them all while they still have each other) and hating it (getting a sucky, sucky grade on my essay while it begins to pour outside and having no umbrella. This is when the sentence "Get me OUT of this hellhole!" crosses your mind). It has been rainy and cold lately and that hasn't helped much. I could see my breath yesterday at 1 p.m., which made me want to laugh and cry simultaneously.
My parents just finished visiting me and I took them to Betty's (supposedly the best teahouse in England. I believe it.), my favorite Indian restaurant (twice... I told you, I'm a tikka masala whore) and Monk Bar, where my dad remembers going to 23 years ago. We went to Haworth today (the town where the Brontes lived) and saw their house (now a museum that reminds me somewhat of the Louisa May Alcott museum in Concord). When we were walking out of the museum, the sun started shining and the Yorkshire Dales were so verdantly green that it looked like a movie backdrop. As we made our way down the windy stone streets, I looked around at the much-too-cute-to-actually-exist houses and stores and thought, "This, I will miss."
It's strange though. As much as I will miss things like pubs, the duck pond and kids that you want to kidnap because they sound so cute speaking in their accents, I know that I will be able to make do without these things. I know I will adjust to not having them, as much as I do love them now.
There is one thing that will be hard, though: the Nouse staff. I know I make such a fuss over them, but they really are the people I have become closest too, and it makes me tear up every time I think of leaving them. If all of us were dispersing across the world, I would be sad, but the fact that I am the only one leaving, that they will all be together next year having adventures and fun without me, is what makes me want to sob in the bathroom during production nights. I will probably see some again--two plan to make a trip to America next summer and one plans to go to graduate school in California--but even then, I will see them rarely. The rest of them I probably won't see ever again. Even just next year, I will be a memory from last year. Though they will remember me fondly, it won't be like being one of them, one of the people who is there for three years and becomes a true friend. I will be that "nice American girl" who crosses their minds only occasionally before more important, immediate things demand their attention.
I feel like I should end this in some "life lesson" or "but it will all be OK in the end" way, but I still don't know how this will turn out, so I will leave it open-ended for now. After all, I still have two weeks here and two well-sized essays to finish, so I shouldn't be talking like I'm leaving tomorrow. But I can feel that "needing closure" desperation starting to set in on me, which is discouraging and makes me feel like panicking.
14 days left. I hope I can do it.
My two classes this term have been Modern Irish Poetry and Charles Dickens. I adore the latter, as I love the reading material and have a small crush on the professor (he is just so ENGLISH). At the start of term, I was convinced the MIP professor hated my guts, but she actually liked my essay I just got back and I am allowed to revise it for my final paper. All in all, I'm happy with these classes (even if I'm TERRIBLE at dissecting poetry).
Francie came to visit and enjoyed herself, as did Ann. I've helped put out another two issues of Nouse, one of which required one late night and an all-nighter to put out, but looked gorgeous, so it was worth it. I distributed the papers and everyone laughed at me that I was so nice about it, asking people if they wanted one instead of just shoving it in their face. I have eaten too much curry (the English word for all Indian food) and steak and ale pie. I went to see a movie in mid-May and when I got out of it, I wandered around York for two hours knowing how much I was going to miss it.
Currently, I feel like I have relapsed into how I felt at the start: ricocheting between loving this place (being in Nouse and wondering how I will ever leave them all while they still have each other) and hating it (getting a sucky, sucky grade on my essay while it begins to pour outside and having no umbrella. This is when the sentence "Get me OUT of this hellhole!" crosses your mind). It has been rainy and cold lately and that hasn't helped much. I could see my breath yesterday at 1 p.m., which made me want to laugh and cry simultaneously.
My parents just finished visiting me and I took them to Betty's (supposedly the best teahouse in England. I believe it.), my favorite Indian restaurant (twice... I told you, I'm a tikka masala whore) and Monk Bar, where my dad remembers going to 23 years ago. We went to Haworth today (the town where the Brontes lived) and saw their house (now a museum that reminds me somewhat of the Louisa May Alcott museum in Concord). When we were walking out of the museum, the sun started shining and the Yorkshire Dales were so verdantly green that it looked like a movie backdrop. As we made our way down the windy stone streets, I looked around at the much-too-cute-to-actually-exist houses and stores and thought, "This, I will miss."
It's strange though. As much as I will miss things like pubs, the duck pond and kids that you want to kidnap because they sound so cute speaking in their accents, I know that I will be able to make do without these things. I know I will adjust to not having them, as much as I do love them now.
There is one thing that will be hard, though: the Nouse staff. I know I make such a fuss over them, but they really are the people I have become closest too, and it makes me tear up every time I think of leaving them. If all of us were dispersing across the world, I would be sad, but the fact that I am the only one leaving, that they will all be together next year having adventures and fun without me, is what makes me want to sob in the bathroom during production nights. I will probably see some again--two plan to make a trip to America next summer and one plans to go to graduate school in California--but even then, I will see them rarely. The rest of them I probably won't see ever again. Even just next year, I will be a memory from last year. Though they will remember me fondly, it won't be like being one of them, one of the people who is there for three years and becomes a true friend. I will be that "nice American girl" who crosses their minds only occasionally before more important, immediate things demand their attention.
I feel like I should end this in some "life lesson" or "but it will all be OK in the end" way, but I still don't know how this will turn out, so I will leave it open-ended for now. After all, I still have two weeks here and two well-sized essays to finish, so I shouldn't be talking like I'm leaving tomorrow. But I can feel that "needing closure" desperation starting to set in on me, which is discouraging and makes me feel like panicking.
14 days left. I hope I can do it.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
London again
We got back to London and slept for the whole day. That night, we went to the bar beneath the hostel and both of us scored. Although for Genevieve, this was a night living up to her expectations, this had never happened for me before.
To tell you the truth, guys, the guy I kissed in the bar was my first kiss (hides face in shame).
It's a very long story with kind of a sad ending, so I won't go into it. But he was a mid-20s British journalist. It had been my goal ever since deciding on studying in England to kiss a British boy, and this one was actually cute, a journalist and asked to kiss me. I would have been a fool to turn him down.
Genevieve, however, was even luckier. The boy she met (the guy's friend) is now her boyfriend and she goes to visit him most weekends in London. Envious? You have no idea!
The next day, we went to the Tate Modern. I was so glad I wasn't there with my father, who would have called most of the works there "trash." Although I'm a little more open minded, some of the stuff was pretty unintentionally laughable. When the plaque describes a white plastic tube as being "representative of the hollowness felt by the population after WWII," you have to kind of take a step back and wonder at the state of the world. However, the place didn't disappoint--even if a work was ridiculous, it was nonetheless interesting. And there were some pretty amazing paintings, including multiple works by Dali.
That night, we finally met the people in our room. There were three Tasmanians who were incredibly nice and fun and took us out to drink and dance. (I couldn't stop them from buying me drinks despite all the feminist protests I could muster. I finally bought my own when they actually ran out of money!) I bonded with one of the boys, Tim, as he kept talking about how his friend got all the girls because he was much more attractive. I could definitely relate after spending four weeks with Genevieve in tow--a pretty, super-confident blonde. Nothing is more damaging to the ego.
We got to the subway and got to a station pretty far away before it closed for the night and we didn't know where the clubs were. Genevieve opted to search for one with one of the boys, and me (as I am never a big party animal) and Tim decided to head back to the hostel. We were both very, very drunk however, and headed back in the direction we thought was the hostel.
Finally, we saw the London millenium ferris wheel and Big Ben. We then came upon a really beautiful building . We couldn't for the life of us figure out what it was, as we were on the side of the building and there were no signs.
So Tim decided to be a boy and climbed the fence to go look at a doorway to see if there was a plaque or something. I started yelling at him, telling him we would get in SO much trouble, but he didn't seem to listen to me (or was too drunk to). He couldn't find anything and climbed back over the fence and we set off for home again. Or so we thought.
In about 20 seconds, there was a huge burly security guard in front of us who asked what we were doing. Freaking out in my mind, we told him we just wanted to know what the building was.
"This is Parliament," he said, "and there are two men coming who want to talk to you."
I have never felt more scared in my life (except for maybe climbing the Eiffel Tower). I had know idea what to do as the three men grilled Tim on his name, his address, what he was doing. What would I do if he went to jail? Would I go with him and try to bail him out? Would I try to go back to the hostel and tell his friend? Where was the hostel anyway? I was this close to crying.
Finally, the men said that they realized he had just had "one too many drinks" and that he shouldn't do it again. When they asked us where we were going and we told them London Bridge, they paused for a moment (probably marveling at our utter stupidity).
"That's in the opposite direction on the other side of the river," one of them said.
We powerwalked away as fast as we could. If I ever visit Parliament again, I might have to wear sunglasses.
Despite a quick bathroom run at the Savoy, the ritziest hotel in London that was the only one open at that point and required me basically begging the concierge and telling him I wouldn't take more than 30 seconds tops), it was an otherwise screw-up free trip back. London at 1 a.m. is so beautiful with all of the lights reflecting on the river and (in a unusually ballsy move by me), I held Tim's hand most of the way, not necessarily in a romantic way, but just in a safe, friendly-type way. It was a nice night.
We got back at around 2:30 or so, but Genevieve didn't make it into bed until 7 a.m. So when I woke up, I wrote postcards, read and got lunch for us at our favorite sandwich place that we went to eery day we were there (the staff started to recognize us). We went to clubs near Liverpool Street that night, which was nice for dancing (I dance like a fiend) but a killer on the wallet for drinks. We got Indian food at 2 a.m., though, which always makes the night better.
The next day we went back to the neighborhood to a huge vintage store we saw while walking around at night. We also ate gelato in the open air, which was amazing because it was about 70 degrees out (they made announcements over the tube intercom about ways to "beat the heat," with Genevieve and I trying not to crack up). That night, I met up with three of my newspaper friends with Genevieve. Although the three were about two hours late, they took us to pubs around Angel (which has always been one of my favorite tube stops, as my parents call me "Angel" and put the tube sign on my room when I was little). It was nice being in a city with actual natives, and the fact that it was so warm was a bonus.
Being Sunday, every single bar was shut up tight by midnight. Raf and Nicky got the bright idea to have rum and coke in the park, "just like middle school" (or whatever it is they call middle school, I forget). However, two things should have been warning signs for us at that point:
1) Beer before liquor, never been sicker (we had consumed about four pints of cider by that time).
2) English kids can drink you under the table any time, any place. Because of basically being soaked in alcohol since they were 13 or 14, they can handle rum and coke with about 1/16 being Coke and the rest being rum.
The hour or so we spent in the park was really fun and we were all talkative, including Genevieve telling of her boy adventures so far in England. At the one-hour point, though, we both... got upset stomachs and the rest of the night and the next day was kind of a blur. When I got back to York at 6 p.m. or so, I fell into bed and spent the next two days hanging out alone in my room in my underwear--just because I could.
Sometimes, you just need some time alone. Preferably in your underwear.
To tell you the truth, guys, the guy I kissed in the bar was my first kiss (hides face in shame).
It's a very long story with kind of a sad ending, so I won't go into it. But he was a mid-20s British journalist. It had been my goal ever since deciding on studying in England to kiss a British boy, and this one was actually cute, a journalist and asked to kiss me. I would have been a fool to turn him down.
Genevieve, however, was even luckier. The boy she met (the guy's friend) is now her boyfriend and she goes to visit him most weekends in London. Envious? You have no idea!
The next day, we went to the Tate Modern. I was so glad I wasn't there with my father, who would have called most of the works there "trash." Although I'm a little more open minded, some of the stuff was pretty unintentionally laughable. When the plaque describes a white plastic tube as being "representative of the hollowness felt by the population after WWII," you have to kind of take a step back and wonder at the state of the world. However, the place didn't disappoint--even if a work was ridiculous, it was nonetheless interesting. And there were some pretty amazing paintings, including multiple works by Dali.
That night, we finally met the people in our room. There were three Tasmanians who were incredibly nice and fun and took us out to drink and dance. (I couldn't stop them from buying me drinks despite all the feminist protests I could muster. I finally bought my own when they actually ran out of money!) I bonded with one of the boys, Tim, as he kept talking about how his friend got all the girls because he was much more attractive. I could definitely relate after spending four weeks with Genevieve in tow--a pretty, super-confident blonde. Nothing is more damaging to the ego.
We got to the subway and got to a station pretty far away before it closed for the night and we didn't know where the clubs were. Genevieve opted to search for one with one of the boys, and me (as I am never a big party animal) and Tim decided to head back to the hostel. We were both very, very drunk however, and headed back in the direction we thought was the hostel.
Finally, we saw the London millenium ferris wheel and Big Ben. We then came upon a really beautiful building . We couldn't for the life of us figure out what it was, as we were on the side of the building and there were no signs.
So Tim decided to be a boy and climbed the fence to go look at a doorway to see if there was a plaque or something. I started yelling at him, telling him we would get in SO much trouble, but he didn't seem to listen to me (or was too drunk to). He couldn't find anything and climbed back over the fence and we set off for home again. Or so we thought.
In about 20 seconds, there was a huge burly security guard in front of us who asked what we were doing. Freaking out in my mind, we told him we just wanted to know what the building was.
"This is Parliament," he said, "and there are two men coming who want to talk to you."
I have never felt more scared in my life (except for maybe climbing the Eiffel Tower). I had know idea what to do as the three men grilled Tim on his name, his address, what he was doing. What would I do if he went to jail? Would I go with him and try to bail him out? Would I try to go back to the hostel and tell his friend? Where was the hostel anyway? I was this close to crying.
Finally, the men said that they realized he had just had "one too many drinks" and that he shouldn't do it again. When they asked us where we were going and we told them London Bridge, they paused for a moment (probably marveling at our utter stupidity).
"That's in the opposite direction on the other side of the river," one of them said.
We powerwalked away as fast as we could. If I ever visit Parliament again, I might have to wear sunglasses.
Despite a quick bathroom run at the Savoy, the ritziest hotel in London that was the only one open at that point and required me basically begging the concierge and telling him I wouldn't take more than 30 seconds tops), it was an otherwise screw-up free trip back. London at 1 a.m. is so beautiful with all of the lights reflecting on the river and (in a unusually ballsy move by me), I held Tim's hand most of the way, not necessarily in a romantic way, but just in a safe, friendly-type way. It was a nice night.
We got back at around 2:30 or so, but Genevieve didn't make it into bed until 7 a.m. So when I woke up, I wrote postcards, read and got lunch for us at our favorite sandwich place that we went to eery day we were there (the staff started to recognize us). We went to clubs near Liverpool Street that night, which was nice for dancing (I dance like a fiend) but a killer on the wallet for drinks. We got Indian food at 2 a.m., though, which always makes the night better.
The next day we went back to the neighborhood to a huge vintage store we saw while walking around at night. We also ate gelato in the open air, which was amazing because it was about 70 degrees out (they made announcements over the tube intercom about ways to "beat the heat," with Genevieve and I trying not to crack up). That night, I met up with three of my newspaper friends with Genevieve. Although the three were about two hours late, they took us to pubs around Angel (which has always been one of my favorite tube stops, as my parents call me "Angel" and put the tube sign on my room when I was little). It was nice being in a city with actual natives, and the fact that it was so warm was a bonus.
Being Sunday, every single bar was shut up tight by midnight. Raf and Nicky got the bright idea to have rum and coke in the park, "just like middle school" (or whatever it is they call middle school, I forget). However, two things should have been warning signs for us at that point:
1) Beer before liquor, never been sicker (we had consumed about four pints of cider by that time).
2) English kids can drink you under the table any time, any place. Because of basically being soaked in alcohol since they were 13 or 14, they can handle rum and coke with about 1/16 being Coke and the rest being rum.
The hour or so we spent in the park was really fun and we were all talkative, including Genevieve telling of her boy adventures so far in England. At the one-hour point, though, we both... got upset stomachs and the rest of the night and the next day was kind of a blur. When I got back to York at 6 p.m. or so, I fell into bed and spent the next two days hanging out alone in my room in my underwear--just because I could.
Sometimes, you just need some time alone. Preferably in your underwear.
Rome
Ignorantly booking our Rome stay for the weekend of Easter without knowing it (we are such heathens), the only place we could find with beds was a hostel a 30-minute train ride outside of the city in Ostia, a beachside town. Although this may sound barf-worthy, it was actually nice to be able to escape to the less-crowded town and have the ocean nearby. It was also a huge, clean place with movies every night and a cafeteria-type place (with a bartender who translated the Italian MTV for us, where they basically just interviewed Italian teens about their sex lives... good times.)
The first day, we went to the Spanish steps, which were INFESTED with tourists. You could barely find a place to walk up them. The John Keats museum was right next door, so we popped into it (actually the location where he died at the ripe old age of 25). It was beautiful and touching, but also kind of creepy. In the room where he died, there were flowers sculpted on the ceiling and he liked to look at them and imagine that they were the flowers on his grave. CREEEEPY. Oh well, I guess you don't write world-changing poetry by being a well-adjusted person.
We then moseyed our way to the Trevi fountain via supposedly the best gelato in the world (according to the NY Times). The caramel flavor was delicious, but the gelato we had in Paris might have rivaled it. We then got to the Trevi fountain (again crawling with tourists), which was beautiful, despite the crowds and annoying street vendors (no, I do NOT want clacking balls or squishy toys. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.)
The second day, we woke up at 5:30 a.m. (those who know me know that this is like trying to forcefeed me celery--pretty much impossible) to go to the Sistine Chapel. Francie and I were pretty grumbly about it, but by the time we got there, it was a beautiful spring morning and we almost enjoyed lining up for two hours (almost). The paintings were nice, but the Vatican City grounds were the best part. The flora reminded me of San Mateo and made me miss the Bay Area. It was another place I wanted to get married (because, you know, the royal palace in Seville wasn't enough of a stretch).
We spent Easter in Ostia as we wanted to avoid the crowds the entire day. We just sat in the sun at the beach (finally!) and ate icecream and I spent about two hours collecting seaglass on the beach (there was a CRAPLOAD). There were even pieces of decorated tile, which made me wonder how old they were.
The next day, we went to the Colosseum (overcome with tourists), the Mouth of Truth (made famous in "Roman Holiday," with a line of tourists about 200 feet long) and finished our day at the Palantine Hill (filled with tourists, but that was OK because it was a big place). All of the ruins were beautiful and it was mind-boggling to think about how long they had been there.
I guess it's kind of hypocritical to get mad about tourists overrunning everything, but it was increasingly frustrating as time went on. There is the OK type of tourist (quiet, discreet, trying to blend in, nicely dressed, taking pictures but not like it was our last day on earth) and then there is the worst-nightmare tourist (ill-fitting shorts, fanny packs, baseball hats, saying "Oh, look at that big building!" with a Brooklyn accent, flashing cameras like the paparazzi). It was strange because I got mad at English people for their horribly stereotypical views of Americans, but most of the Americans we ran into on our trip were spitting images of the cliche. We were definitely in the minority for American tourists, which was so frightening.
In another smart move, Genevieve and I booked our flight to London at 6:30 in the morning. Not realizing Ostia was 30 minutes outside of Rome. Or that the airport was 45 minutes outside of Rome. And that the trains didn't run that early (or late, depending on how you look at it). So we had to catch a bus at 2 a.m., wait in the middle of Rome for an hour at 3 a.m. with a bum actually sleeping across the street from us, then catch a bus at 4 to actually get to the airport. Until this moment, I hadn't even told my parents about this, as there were so many sketchy characters out in the wee hours of the morning that I was scared we would get raped/stabbed/assaulted by a drunk homeless man/all three.
This may sound dramatic, but you try it and tell me if it's not scary as fuck. Waiting for two hours in the tiny airport on hard plastic benches was welcome after that.
The first day, we went to the Spanish steps, which were INFESTED with tourists. You could barely find a place to walk up them. The John Keats museum was right next door, so we popped into it (actually the location where he died at the ripe old age of 25). It was beautiful and touching, but also kind of creepy. In the room where he died, there were flowers sculpted on the ceiling and he liked to look at them and imagine that they were the flowers on his grave. CREEEEPY. Oh well, I guess you don't write world-changing poetry by being a well-adjusted person.
We then moseyed our way to the Trevi fountain via supposedly the best gelato in the world (according to the NY Times). The caramel flavor was delicious, but the gelato we had in Paris might have rivaled it. We then got to the Trevi fountain (again crawling with tourists), which was beautiful, despite the crowds and annoying street vendors (no, I do NOT want clacking balls or squishy toys. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.)
The second day, we woke up at 5:30 a.m. (those who know me know that this is like trying to forcefeed me celery--pretty much impossible) to go to the Sistine Chapel. Francie and I were pretty grumbly about it, but by the time we got there, it was a beautiful spring morning and we almost enjoyed lining up for two hours (almost). The paintings were nice, but the Vatican City grounds were the best part. The flora reminded me of San Mateo and made me miss the Bay Area. It was another place I wanted to get married (because, you know, the royal palace in Seville wasn't enough of a stretch).
We spent Easter in Ostia as we wanted to avoid the crowds the entire day. We just sat in the sun at the beach (finally!) and ate icecream and I spent about two hours collecting seaglass on the beach (there was a CRAPLOAD). There were even pieces of decorated tile, which made me wonder how old they were.
The next day, we went to the Colosseum (overcome with tourists), the Mouth of Truth (made famous in "Roman Holiday," with a line of tourists about 200 feet long) and finished our day at the Palantine Hill (filled with tourists, but that was OK because it was a big place). All of the ruins were beautiful and it was mind-boggling to think about how long they had been there.
I guess it's kind of hypocritical to get mad about tourists overrunning everything, but it was increasingly frustrating as time went on. There is the OK type of tourist (quiet, discreet, trying to blend in, nicely dressed, taking pictures but not like it was our last day on earth) and then there is the worst-nightmare tourist (ill-fitting shorts, fanny packs, baseball hats, saying "Oh, look at that big building!" with a Brooklyn accent, flashing cameras like the paparazzi). It was strange because I got mad at English people for their horribly stereotypical views of Americans, but most of the Americans we ran into on our trip were spitting images of the cliche. We were definitely in the minority for American tourists, which was so frightening.
In another smart move, Genevieve and I booked our flight to London at 6:30 in the morning. Not realizing Ostia was 30 minutes outside of Rome. Or that the airport was 45 minutes outside of Rome. And that the trains didn't run that early (or late, depending on how you look at it). So we had to catch a bus at 2 a.m., wait in the middle of Rome for an hour at 3 a.m. with a bum actually sleeping across the street from us, then catch a bus at 4 to actually get to the airport. Until this moment, I hadn't even told my parents about this, as there were so many sketchy characters out in the wee hours of the morning that I was scared we would get raped/stabbed/assaulted by a drunk homeless man/all three.
This may sound dramatic, but you try it and tell me if it's not scary as fuck. Waiting for two hours in the tiny airport on hard plastic benches was welcome after that.
Venice
Venice was my favorite city. Bar none (except for maybe the first day at Madrid). Although we were staying on the mainland (in this cute hotel where the front desk guy didn't even speak English! Charades were quite popular during our time there), it was actually a hotel and we got our own room and bathroom and free soap. Free soap seemed like a revolutionary idea to us after bumming it at so many scummy hostels. The bus stop was also about a three-minute walk away and we got at least 5 honkings every time we walked to it, almost rivaling Seville (and that's saying something).
The city was... wow, guys, I don't even know how to put into words the beauty. On the bus, you go over this huge bridge that takes about ten minutes to get to and you can see the city shining in the distance in the middle of the water. When you got to the bus stop, it was blue canals, white buildings, tiny stone streets and gondolas as far as the eye could see.
The unique thing about Venice was that there was "no culture," as our dad put it. No museums or touristy things to do. But this was a godsend for us. Not to sound too "Wahhh, my wallet's too small for my 50's and my diamond shoes are too tight," but at this point (three weeks in) we were SO OVER ratting around as tourists. If I had to go to one more museum, I was going to vomit all over the 173rd rendition of Christ's crucifixion. No, Venice was nothing but pizza, charming alleyways that lined the canals (or dead-ended at water), arched bridges, warm weather, happy tourists, beautiful masquerade masks and cheap sunglasses/knockoff bags.
On our second day there, we took the waterbus (a huge boat, since getting across the city is a NIGHTMARE because of said dead-ends and bridges) to the Piazza San Marco, the huge square right next to the ocean. We sat in the outside seats with a happy tourist family next to us, looking out on the sunset over the ocean (glowing pink on the water) and the gobsmacking buildings and the tiny pretty boats and had to pinch ourselves. We were really here, not slogging away at work in LA or braving the cold in York? That was the time when I felt most lucky to be on the trip--it was just SO goddamn gorgeous and I couldn't believe it wasn't a dream or a movie backdrop.
In the Piazza, there were a few old buildings that you could tour, but we decided to feed the pigeons instead. This sounds boring, but it's anything but. The pigeons there are so used to tourists feeding them that with your 1-euro packet of corn kernels, they will actually fly up TO YOUR HAND and eat out of it, perchng on your arm. If there was ever a time I felt most like the crazy bird lady in "Mary Poppins," this was it. We got to be pretty much pro bird feeders by the end, knowing you had to show the birds your packet and stretch out your hand if you wanted to coax a few up. At one point, I had three eating from my hand. I wonder if I could put such a thing on my resume...
Our last night there, we ate at a fancy cafe with tables right on the water and I again couldn't help but smile like a madman at my pizza magherita (the only thing in our price range), wondering how I got so lucky and how glad I was that I hadn't listened to my dad and waited to see Venice with someone "with whom I was romantically involved."
Although making out on a gondola would be pretty rad.
The city was... wow, guys, I don't even know how to put into words the beauty. On the bus, you go over this huge bridge that takes about ten minutes to get to and you can see the city shining in the distance in the middle of the water. When you got to the bus stop, it was blue canals, white buildings, tiny stone streets and gondolas as far as the eye could see.
The unique thing about Venice was that there was "no culture," as our dad put it. No museums or touristy things to do. But this was a godsend for us. Not to sound too "Wahhh, my wallet's too small for my 50's and my diamond shoes are too tight," but at this point (three weeks in) we were SO OVER ratting around as tourists. If I had to go to one more museum, I was going to vomit all over the 173rd rendition of Christ's crucifixion. No, Venice was nothing but pizza, charming alleyways that lined the canals (or dead-ended at water), arched bridges, warm weather, happy tourists, beautiful masquerade masks and cheap sunglasses/knockoff bags.
On our second day there, we took the waterbus (a huge boat, since getting across the city is a NIGHTMARE because of said dead-ends and bridges) to the Piazza San Marco, the huge square right next to the ocean. We sat in the outside seats with a happy tourist family next to us, looking out on the sunset over the ocean (glowing pink on the water) and the gobsmacking buildings and the tiny pretty boats and had to pinch ourselves. We were really here, not slogging away at work in LA or braving the cold in York? That was the time when I felt most lucky to be on the trip--it was just SO goddamn gorgeous and I couldn't believe it wasn't a dream or a movie backdrop.
In the Piazza, there were a few old buildings that you could tour, but we decided to feed the pigeons instead. This sounds boring, but it's anything but. The pigeons there are so used to tourists feeding them that with your 1-euro packet of corn kernels, they will actually fly up TO YOUR HAND and eat out of it, perchng on your arm. If there was ever a time I felt most like the crazy bird lady in "Mary Poppins," this was it. We got to be pretty much pro bird feeders by the end, knowing you had to show the birds your packet and stretch out your hand if you wanted to coax a few up. At one point, I had three eating from my hand. I wonder if I could put such a thing on my resume...
Our last night there, we ate at a fancy cafe with tables right on the water and I again couldn't help but smile like a madman at my pizza magherita (the only thing in our price range), wondering how I got so lucky and how glad I was that I hadn't listened to my dad and waited to see Venice with someone "with whom I was romantically involved."
Although making out on a gondola would be pretty rad.
Barcelona
Good things about Barcelona: the bizarre and enchanting Gaudi architecture (the church La Sagrada Familia is probably the only building that has actually taken my breath away), this pita wrap place we found on the big street in the center of town, meeting our friend Bryan from Oxy for drinks at a German beer hall, the location of our hostel, looking at the pets they were selling on the street, more catcalling Spanish boys, the brother and sister Aussie duo we met at our hostel, the Picasso museum (especially the Picasso versions of "Las Munecas"), churros and chocolate, the Starbuckses
Bad things about Barcelona: awful directions to get to our hostel, the cranky maid who slapped Genevieve on the butt to wake her up 45 minutes before we had to be out of the room, showers you have to push every 30 seconds to keep the water running, a really weird lady in our room who we all hated with a passion after only two days of knowing her, mean Barcelona people who push you on the bus, mean Barcelona bus drivers who seem intent on crippling you for life in the way they turn and brake, a crappy nightlife, mean Barcelona people who laugh at how bad you are at Spanish (at least we're trying!), a tourist-infested Park Guell, a day at the Park Guell with about an hour of pouring rain and having to huddle under an alcove to get out of it, an exorbitantly-priced entrance fee for the Erotic Museum (6 euros?? Seriously??), chain stores up the wazoo, having to use awfully expensive internet cafes to figure out what classes I wanted to take at Oxy in the fall, seeing a lady almost get her purse stolen right from beside her if it wasn't for a nice British man who scared the thief off (this made me miss England--the guy being so nice, not the purse stealing), meeting a girl who actually got her purse stolen with a two-year-old journal inside of it, the lack of Barclays, the security guards not letting us into the dance hall even though we had bought drinks from the bar, the guy with a camel-colored coat who didn't hit on Genevieve (c'mon, guy, she's hot)
The bad things far outweigh the good things. We were so done with Barcelona by the time we had to leave.
Bad things about Barcelona: awful directions to get to our hostel, the cranky maid who slapped Genevieve on the butt to wake her up 45 minutes before we had to be out of the room, showers you have to push every 30 seconds to keep the water running, a really weird lady in our room who we all hated with a passion after only two days of knowing her, mean Barcelona people who push you on the bus, mean Barcelona bus drivers who seem intent on crippling you for life in the way they turn and brake, a crappy nightlife, mean Barcelona people who laugh at how bad you are at Spanish (at least we're trying!), a tourist-infested Park Guell, a day at the Park Guell with about an hour of pouring rain and having to huddle under an alcove to get out of it, an exorbitantly-priced entrance fee for the Erotic Museum (6 euros?? Seriously??), chain stores up the wazoo, having to use awfully expensive internet cafes to figure out what classes I wanted to take at Oxy in the fall, seeing a lady almost get her purse stolen right from beside her if it wasn't for a nice British man who scared the thief off (this made me miss England--the guy being so nice, not the purse stealing), meeting a girl who actually got her purse stolen with a two-year-old journal inside of it, the lack of Barclays, the security guards not letting us into the dance hall even though we had bought drinks from the bar, the guy with a camel-colored coat who didn't hit on Genevieve (c'mon, guy, she's hot)
The bad things far outweigh the good things. We were so done with Barcelona by the time we had to leave.
Seville
Our train ride was perfect--such a juxtaposition from the hellhole of a station we had just left. The lady had booked us around a table, so we could talk, write postcards, look out the windows at the countryside, etc. The man at the sketchy hostel had told us that the countryside wasn't anything to write home about. He couldn't have been more wrong. The soil was almost red and it was all green hills, pastures, blue sky, and all that other cliche stuff you see in paintings. The sun was out (George Harrison himself could not have been happier than I was at that moment) and we watched Johnny Depp in "Finding Neverland" in Spanish. Possibly the most idyllic train ride I have ever been on, especially with Johnny Depp.
We got the train station and got on a bus having no idea where we were going. We ended up just bugging the bus driver at every single stop until we got to ours and had to walk for what the instructions said was 10 minutes. They must have had in mind Flo-Jo with no luggage, as it really took about half an hour. But we were so happy to find the place that we didn't mind much.
The next day we went to the humongous, over-the-top (but in a good way) cathedral in the heart of the city and had a picnic lunch on the church steps. We lost ourselves in the beautiful whitewashed, green plant, black iron gated squares of the city with a few stops in kitschy souvenir stores. We met Francie's and my friend Elizabeth (our dads have known each other since preschool and we go on vacation with each other every summer) who was studying abroad there for dinner. She took us to a vegetarian/vegan Cuban restaurant at the end of a twisting labrynth of streets. Genevieve could have kissed her. Francie and I could have kissed her for the amazing sangria we found there.
My memory of order of events gets a little hazy here because it has been so long. I think the next day we went to the beach on a two-hour long bus trip. Liz had class, but the three of us were excited for the ocean as we hadn't seen it since leaving California. When we got to the beach town--called Matalascanas--it was completely deserted. We found a few restaurant type places open and one souvenir store. Other than that, it could have had tumbleweeds. Liz told us it would be pretty empty not being the weekend, but we hadn't expected it to be eery, murder-us-in-broad-daylight empty. The beach was beautiful but it was incredibly cloudy and we almost cried that we couldn't even sunbathe on a BEACH.
The next day, Liz took us to the Royal Palace, where the king and queen stay when they are in Seville. Although the building was nice, it was the outside grounds that left me with my mouth hanging open. There were huge old trees making a canopy, fountains and wisteria galore, sunshine, beautiful smells, statues, etc. We all sat there for about an hour talking and I wished I could have had my wedding there. It was that beautiful.
Not that I would have had a hard time finding a potential husband in that city. The construction workers (out in full force to get roads rebuilt before Semana Santa) would have catcalled a female rhinoceros. Although Liz was disparaging and acted like it was just an annoyance to put up with, Francie and I were soaking up the male attention like a dehydrated man at an oasis. Although British accents are the hottest thing everrrrrr, all of the boys here act like you are a rock. They aren't even nice to you... or even look at you, for that matter. They dance in groups with their friends and act like they've never even heard the meaning of cleavage.
Coleridge phrased it perfectly when he said, "Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink." Only "water" is "hot British boys with amazing accents that make me drool like a 95-year-old at a rest home" and "drop to drink" is "any sort of acknowledgement that boys are sexual beings and find you in the heart of their testosterone-pumping hearts any more attractive than Roseanne."
Liz took us to bars and clubs around Seville that night and although it was fun, it was mostly college kids studying abroad, which was somewhat disappointing. But a drink with Liz is like one of the most fun nights in England, so we didn't mind much.
The only thing I regret about Seville is not buying the orange stuffed animal in the Royal Palace gift shop. And when I say "orange," I mean an actual stuffed animal of an orange fruit with a rind. Damn, that thing was amazing. I'm still kicking myself.
We got the train station and got on a bus having no idea where we were going. We ended up just bugging the bus driver at every single stop until we got to ours and had to walk for what the instructions said was 10 minutes. They must have had in mind Flo-Jo with no luggage, as it really took about half an hour. But we were so happy to find the place that we didn't mind much.
The next day we went to the humongous, over-the-top (but in a good way) cathedral in the heart of the city and had a picnic lunch on the church steps. We lost ourselves in the beautiful whitewashed, green plant, black iron gated squares of the city with a few stops in kitschy souvenir stores. We met Francie's and my friend Elizabeth (our dads have known each other since preschool and we go on vacation with each other every summer) who was studying abroad there for dinner. She took us to a vegetarian/vegan Cuban restaurant at the end of a twisting labrynth of streets. Genevieve could have kissed her. Francie and I could have kissed her for the amazing sangria we found there.
My memory of order of events gets a little hazy here because it has been so long. I think the next day we went to the beach on a two-hour long bus trip. Liz had class, but the three of us were excited for the ocean as we hadn't seen it since leaving California. When we got to the beach town--called Matalascanas--it was completely deserted. We found a few restaurant type places open and one souvenir store. Other than that, it could have had tumbleweeds. Liz told us it would be pretty empty not being the weekend, but we hadn't expected it to be eery, murder-us-in-broad-daylight empty. The beach was beautiful but it was incredibly cloudy and we almost cried that we couldn't even sunbathe on a BEACH.
The next day, Liz took us to the Royal Palace, where the king and queen stay when they are in Seville. Although the building was nice, it was the outside grounds that left me with my mouth hanging open. There were huge old trees making a canopy, fountains and wisteria galore, sunshine, beautiful smells, statues, etc. We all sat there for about an hour talking and I wished I could have had my wedding there. It was that beautiful.
Not that I would have had a hard time finding a potential husband in that city. The construction workers (out in full force to get roads rebuilt before Semana Santa) would have catcalled a female rhinoceros. Although Liz was disparaging and acted like it was just an annoyance to put up with, Francie and I were soaking up the male attention like a dehydrated man at an oasis. Although British accents are the hottest thing everrrrrr, all of the boys here act like you are a rock. They aren't even nice to you... or even look at you, for that matter. They dance in groups with their friends and act like they've never even heard the meaning of cleavage.
Coleridge phrased it perfectly when he said, "Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink." Only "water" is "hot British boys with amazing accents that make me drool like a 95-year-old at a rest home" and "drop to drink" is "any sort of acknowledgement that boys are sexual beings and find you in the heart of their testosterone-pumping hearts any more attractive than Roseanne."
Liz took us to bars and clubs around Seville that night and although it was fun, it was mostly college kids studying abroad, which was somewhat disappointing. But a drink with Liz is like one of the most fun nights in England, so we didn't mind much.
The only thing I regret about Seville is not buying the orange stuffed animal in the Royal Palace gift shop. And when I say "orange," I mean an actual stuffed animal of an orange fruit with a rind. Damn, that thing was amazing. I'm still kicking myself.
Madrid
I know it has been a long time. Second-year courses have proven to be a lot more difficult than first-year (one would hope so) and my computer died. Both of these things contributed to incredible slacking on my travel blog. Apologies to all.
Sooo... onto Spain. We got into Madrid early in the morning, but because we had been up since 3:45 that morning (*&%^$££ Beauvais airport and Ryanair), we stumbled into our hostel and slept most of the day. We woke up in the late afternoon and discovered that we were in the most beautiful and happening section of Madrid. We wandered around and ate icecream in the beautiful square near our hostel. It was high 60's and I felt like crying, I had missed the warmth so much. It was also so wonderful being able to converse again, since Francie and I could get by in Spanish.
We found a nearby park that we later read in our guidebook was the premiere makeout spot in Madrid. It did not disappoint. You couldn't walk past a beautifully manicured hedged without seeing a couple sucking face. But it wasn't gross. It was rather nice after being in such a sexually repressed country for so long.
That night we went for tapas (Genevieve had never tried them before) and discovered the biggest drawback of Spain: vegetarian food doesn't exist. While Francie and I didn't care much as we happily chomped away on our murdered animals, Genevieve is a vegetarian. We ended up just ordering a Spanish tortilla (potatoes and onions) and some cold cheese for her. That might have been the most lavish meal for her the entire time we were in the country.
The next day, we went to the Prado art museum to meet Genevieve's Oxy friend. Somehow I got totally mixed-up with the map (which hardly ever happens, as I have my dad's keen sense of direction) and we ended up walking the exact opposite direction and were a half-hour late. Genevieve was flipping out without a cell phone, but we told her that people had been late before the advent of cell phones and that her friend would wait. She did.
Genevieve went off with her and Francie and I had a leisurely cafe lunch and then went to the museum. It was stocked with Goya (including the Third of May 1808 and Saturn eating his children) and wasn't too big and therefore became a favorite. We then went to the huge park in the middle of the city and watched people lounging around and walking their dogs in the sunshine. There was also a huge lake crowded with rowboats. We had icecream again (this was a big trend in our travels, along with pointing out cute dogs) and soaked up the sun for the long slog ahead of us--that is, April, May and June in England (it is still high 50's here... but I digress).
We had to move that night to another hostel that was somewhat creepy. We had to ring the bell about five times before someone answered, the elevator creaked like it would plummet down any second and the man who met us at the door brought us into a dark empty room and left us for ten minutes. "We're going to die here, Kelly," Genevieve said, half-joking (and half not).
However, it turned out alright and we got two rooms (one for me and Francie and one for Genevieve) for the price of three beds in a six-bed room at the last hostel. We went to a nearby bar late at night and ordered some crappy bar food (mine appeared to be ham pureed with some type of milky substance and then deep fried) and watched the Spain vs. Denmark soccer game on TV that everyone else was watching intently. We had seen crazy Denmark fans in the subway, painted ALL OVER with red and white and surprisingly not yet murdered in the streets, although there was a fair amount of good natured booing and hissing from the Spanish.
The next day was probably the worst day of the entire trip. We got to the Madrid train station expecting a train station similar to that of England or America: clean, fast, efficient. Instead, it was crowded, noisy, confusing and took forever and a day to get a ticket. We realized you had to get a number and wait for about an hour before they would serve you. Every time a number was called, a beeping version of the "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy" would play. We ended up missing our first number, eating bad train station food (again, about two vegetarian options, and one sandwich called a "vegetable sandwich" that had dried ham in it), getting stalked by a weird guy, and blowing up at one another out of frustration. Finally, we got our second number called and booked the seats together.
"215 euros," said the lady in Spanish. "In cash."
In cash?? In CASH???!!!! Do people seriously carry that much in cash even on them? Luckily, we had just hit up the ATM and threw every bill and coin we had at her and scraped by with about 17 cents to spare. Then we were on the train, heading to Seville.
Sooo... onto Spain. We got into Madrid early in the morning, but because we had been up since 3:45 that morning (*&%^$££ Beauvais airport and Ryanair), we stumbled into our hostel and slept most of the day. We woke up in the late afternoon and discovered that we were in the most beautiful and happening section of Madrid. We wandered around and ate icecream in the beautiful square near our hostel. It was high 60's and I felt like crying, I had missed the warmth so much. It was also so wonderful being able to converse again, since Francie and I could get by in Spanish.
We found a nearby park that we later read in our guidebook was the premiere makeout spot in Madrid. It did not disappoint. You couldn't walk past a beautifully manicured hedged without seeing a couple sucking face. But it wasn't gross. It was rather nice after being in such a sexually repressed country for so long.
That night we went for tapas (Genevieve had never tried them before) and discovered the biggest drawback of Spain: vegetarian food doesn't exist. While Francie and I didn't care much as we happily chomped away on our murdered animals, Genevieve is a vegetarian. We ended up just ordering a Spanish tortilla (potatoes and onions) and some cold cheese for her. That might have been the most lavish meal for her the entire time we were in the country.
The next day, we went to the Prado art museum to meet Genevieve's Oxy friend. Somehow I got totally mixed-up with the map (which hardly ever happens, as I have my dad's keen sense of direction) and we ended up walking the exact opposite direction and were a half-hour late. Genevieve was flipping out without a cell phone, but we told her that people had been late before the advent of cell phones and that her friend would wait. She did.
Genevieve went off with her and Francie and I had a leisurely cafe lunch and then went to the museum. It was stocked with Goya (including the Third of May 1808 and Saturn eating his children) and wasn't too big and therefore became a favorite. We then went to the huge park in the middle of the city and watched people lounging around and walking their dogs in the sunshine. There was also a huge lake crowded with rowboats. We had icecream again (this was a big trend in our travels, along with pointing out cute dogs) and soaked up the sun for the long slog ahead of us--that is, April, May and June in England (it is still high 50's here... but I digress).
We had to move that night to another hostel that was somewhat creepy. We had to ring the bell about five times before someone answered, the elevator creaked like it would plummet down any second and the man who met us at the door brought us into a dark empty room and left us for ten minutes. "We're going to die here, Kelly," Genevieve said, half-joking (and half not).
However, it turned out alright and we got two rooms (one for me and Francie and one for Genevieve) for the price of three beds in a six-bed room at the last hostel. We went to a nearby bar late at night and ordered some crappy bar food (mine appeared to be ham pureed with some type of milky substance and then deep fried) and watched the Spain vs. Denmark soccer game on TV that everyone else was watching intently. We had seen crazy Denmark fans in the subway, painted ALL OVER with red and white and surprisingly not yet murdered in the streets, although there was a fair amount of good natured booing and hissing from the Spanish.
The next day was probably the worst day of the entire trip. We got to the Madrid train station expecting a train station similar to that of England or America: clean, fast, efficient. Instead, it was crowded, noisy, confusing and took forever and a day to get a ticket. We realized you had to get a number and wait for about an hour before they would serve you. Every time a number was called, a beeping version of the "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy" would play. We ended up missing our first number, eating bad train station food (again, about two vegetarian options, and one sandwich called a "vegetable sandwich" that had dried ham in it), getting stalked by a weird guy, and blowing up at one another out of frustration. Finally, we got our second number called and booked the seats together.
"215 euros," said the lady in Spanish. "In cash."
In cash?? In CASH???!!!! Do people seriously carry that much in cash even on them? Luckily, we had just hit up the ATM and threw every bill and coin we had at her and scraped by with about 17 cents to spare. Then we were on the train, heading to Seville.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Le garson, sil vous plait
On the train to Paris, Genevieve and I practiced our French. Well, by French, I mean the token phrases found in the back of our "Let's Go" book (hi, how much is, where is, etc.). And by practicing, I mean me practicing, Genevieve badly mangling the language. Genevieve has many talents, but languages are not one of them.
One of the only words she could actually say was "garson," "waiter" in French. Before leaving on our trip, Genevieve kept talking about how she wanted a French waiter. She eventually learned how to say "Where is the condom, waiter?" and kept repeating the phrase so much that I had to shush her in case there were French people nearby. I was bright red. Luckily, the train was about 1/4th full (traveling at an off-peak tourist time, how much do I love thee? Let me count the ways...)
Our room in Paris was a place we lovingly dubbed "the depths of hell," because, well... it was. It was all the way down three flights of stairs into the center of the earth, cold and clammy and under construction because of remodeling. We did get our own room with our own shower, but the beds had about 8 inches of space between them and the shower curtain had mold growing on it. The showerhead also didn't stay on the wall, so we had to hold it the entire time, including soaping up.
Our first day in Paris, we went to the Eiffel Tower, or, as I came to think of it, the Tower of Imminent Death. It looks nice enough from far away, but I started climbing up the stairs and slowly got more and more freaked out. The steps had holes in them so you could look straight down to the ground. The higher I got, the more worried I was that everything would fall out from under me and I would plummet to my death, despite the fact that it had been there for more than 100 years and no one had died yet.
We got to the first floor and started climbing up to the second. Halfway up that flight, I totally lost it. I could barely move, tears streaming down my cheeks, certain (100% certain) I would die. It's strange—I've always known I was somewhat afraid of heights (thanks to my dad), but it was never this crippling before. I was having a panic attack and had to coax myself back downstairs to the first floor again. I refused to even take the elevator up, certain that would break too. So I just walked around the perimeter of the first floor, looking at the city and finally calmed down with a hot chocolate and pan au chocolat.
Francie and Genevieve were understanding about it and after coming back down, we walked over the river to the Arc de Triumphe and down the Champs Elysees. While doing this seemingly idyllic stroll, it began to rain... and didn't stop. Well it did stop, but only for about a minute two times and then it would just come back with renewed strength. We hid out in various stores, including Louis Vuitton, and just for a moment wished we were back in California, if only to not have ice balls sliding down the collar of your clothes and onto your neck.
That night, we ate the Restaurant de Copains d' Abord, which means "Friends Above All." It was a rather expensive but the most adorable place you have ever seen with even a French singer guy with his guitar singing French songs. So perfectly Parisienne! It turns out that he was fluent in English and sang a few English songs for us, including Eric Clapton's "Layla." We sat listening to him and talking to each other and it was the cliche French experience. In the end, he came and talked to us and we bought his CD to remember better times later on.
Genevieve was sick the next day, so she stayed in bed with bread and cheese. Francie and I went to Sacre Couer, a beautiful white church on the hill of the Montmatre that took about a million steps to get to but was totally worth it. It was so pretty on the inside (and quiet!) and the view outside was breathtaking. We lit candles for people we remembered and gazed onto Paris... as sketchy street vendors guys tried to sell us stuff. We found a fondue place while walking back to the subway station and couldn't help ourselves. It again started hailing while we were gulping down bread and melted cheese and we felt so cozy.
We took the subway to the Luxembourg Gardens and finally found the Medici fountain after searching for about 15 minutes. This was the fountain where our dad proposed to our mom. We had visited it once before when we were 10 with our parents, but this time we were a lot more curious about the occurence... what did our dad say? Did our mom get all girly and start crying? It was fun to think that's where our story started, especially since the fountain is "of two people making love" (yes, our dad said this when we were only 10. Hippie parents!)
After the fountain, we went on a huge trek to find this amazing hot chocolate place we had been to two years ago and found it, after seeing Notre Dame (CRAWLING with tourists, so it was so loud you couldn't even hear yourself think), our umbrellas getting blown inside-out and more hail (see a pattern emerging?). We sat next to an annoying American tourist couple who were almost worth being near to hear what they were saying ("This stuff is nauseating after three sips!"..."The Louvre has some pretty good stuff in it!")
The next day, Genevieve felt a bit better so we walked around the Ile de San Louis (where our dad said we had to go) and had possibly the best gelato I have ever tasted, recommended by our guidebook. We went to bed early because we had to wake up at 3:45 a.m. for our flight to Madrid... damn you, RyanAir!!!!
One of the only words she could actually say was "garson," "waiter" in French. Before leaving on our trip, Genevieve kept talking about how she wanted a French waiter. She eventually learned how to say "Where is the condom, waiter?" and kept repeating the phrase so much that I had to shush her in case there were French people nearby. I was bright red. Luckily, the train was about 1/4th full (traveling at an off-peak tourist time, how much do I love thee? Let me count the ways...)
Our room in Paris was a place we lovingly dubbed "the depths of hell," because, well... it was. It was all the way down three flights of stairs into the center of the earth, cold and clammy and under construction because of remodeling. We did get our own room with our own shower, but the beds had about 8 inches of space between them and the shower curtain had mold growing on it. The showerhead also didn't stay on the wall, so we had to hold it the entire time, including soaping up.
Our first day in Paris, we went to the Eiffel Tower, or, as I came to think of it, the Tower of Imminent Death. It looks nice enough from far away, but I started climbing up the stairs and slowly got more and more freaked out. The steps had holes in them so you could look straight down to the ground. The higher I got, the more worried I was that everything would fall out from under me and I would plummet to my death, despite the fact that it had been there for more than 100 years and no one had died yet.
We got to the first floor and started climbing up to the second. Halfway up that flight, I totally lost it. I could barely move, tears streaming down my cheeks, certain (100% certain) I would die. It's strange—I've always known I was somewhat afraid of heights (thanks to my dad), but it was never this crippling before. I was having a panic attack and had to coax myself back downstairs to the first floor again. I refused to even take the elevator up, certain that would break too. So I just walked around the perimeter of the first floor, looking at the city and finally calmed down with a hot chocolate and pan au chocolat.
Francie and Genevieve were understanding about it and after coming back down, we walked over the river to the Arc de Triumphe and down the Champs Elysees. While doing this seemingly idyllic stroll, it began to rain... and didn't stop. Well it did stop, but only for about a minute two times and then it would just come back with renewed strength. We hid out in various stores, including Louis Vuitton, and just for a moment wished we were back in California, if only to not have ice balls sliding down the collar of your clothes and onto your neck.
That night, we ate the Restaurant de Copains d' Abord, which means "Friends Above All." It was a rather expensive but the most adorable place you have ever seen with even a French singer guy with his guitar singing French songs. So perfectly Parisienne! It turns out that he was fluent in English and sang a few English songs for us, including Eric Clapton's "Layla." We sat listening to him and talking to each other and it was the cliche French experience. In the end, he came and talked to us and we bought his CD to remember better times later on.
Genevieve was sick the next day, so she stayed in bed with bread and cheese. Francie and I went to Sacre Couer, a beautiful white church on the hill of the Montmatre that took about a million steps to get to but was totally worth it. It was so pretty on the inside (and quiet!) and the view outside was breathtaking. We lit candles for people we remembered and gazed onto Paris... as sketchy street vendors guys tried to sell us stuff. We found a fondue place while walking back to the subway station and couldn't help ourselves. It again started hailing while we were gulping down bread and melted cheese and we felt so cozy.
We took the subway to the Luxembourg Gardens and finally found the Medici fountain after searching for about 15 minutes. This was the fountain where our dad proposed to our mom. We had visited it once before when we were 10 with our parents, but this time we were a lot more curious about the occurence... what did our dad say? Did our mom get all girly and start crying? It was fun to think that's where our story started, especially since the fountain is "of two people making love" (yes, our dad said this when we were only 10. Hippie parents!)
After the fountain, we went on a huge trek to find this amazing hot chocolate place we had been to two years ago and found it, after seeing Notre Dame (CRAWLING with tourists, so it was so loud you couldn't even hear yourself think), our umbrellas getting blown inside-out and more hail (see a pattern emerging?). We sat next to an annoying American tourist couple who were almost worth being near to hear what they were saying ("This stuff is nauseating after three sips!"..."The Louvre has some pretty good stuff in it!")
The next day, Genevieve felt a bit better so we walked around the Ile de San Louis (where our dad said we had to go) and had possibly the best gelato I have ever tasted, recommended by our guidebook. We went to bed early because we had to wake up at 3:45 a.m. for our flight to Madrid... damn you, RyanAir!!!!
Leaving home
I know what you're thinking right now. "Kelly has a month of life to catch up on. She takes about two pages a day normally, and now she has to do the same thing for thirty days? How am I going to pretend like I read this when really I kind of gave up halfway through?" I promise I will try to be brief, even though I was doing something new every 24 hours. But I might as well try. Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for!
York has a five-week spring break. I know. I KNOW. Isn't that craziness? Supposedly it's so that it will be the same length as the Christmas break, but it seems a bit much! They all call it "Easter" here, though. Everyone thinks it's so funny when I say spring break... "just like the drunk American kids in the movies!" What can I say, I just love living up to their American stereotypes.
My friend Genevieve from Oxy and Francie and I decided we would travel around Europe for four weeks, considering it would take 10 hours each way to go home and jetlag would eat up two of the weeks of our break if we decided to go back to California. Plus, it would cost money and what would we do there? We will never again be this close to Europe and wanted to take advantage of it.
Genevieve and I started out in London. We had both gotten less than five hours of sleep each the night before we left (me because I was freaking out over the phone with my parents, her because her flatmate had experienced a minor mental breakdown) and we passed out on the train. When we got the train station, I was surprised by my friend Kyna from Oxy. I knew that she was in London and wanted to meet up with me, but I had no idea she would meet me at the station! Needless to say, I was stoked.
She was there with her ex-boyfriend Morgan who was studying there. Morgan had once visited Oxy for Kyna's 21st birthday, so it was fun to see another familiar face. They took us out to lunch at possibly the best creperie I have ever been to and to cookies for Ben's cookies. They also helped us figure out the subway sytem (I mean, the TYUUUBE), which I was so grateful for because I used the knowledge for the rest of the trip (Paris, Madrid, Rome, etc.)
We met up with another Oxy person Justin that night (St. Patrick's Day) at a place called the Troubadour (where Paul Simon and Joni Mitchell have played!) We ordered a pitcher of really bad sangria and heard about his adventures in Amsterdam. We then moved onto a pub to get pints of Guinness (what else?) and saw all of the drunk English people dancing around (to "Sweet Home Alabama"... they are all inexplicably IN LOVE with this song) with their special Guinness hats on. If you bought four pints, you got a free felt hat with four-leaf clovers on it and they were ALL wearing theirs.
That's one of the things I love about English people. They get so into celebrating. When they go to themed parties, they all dress up. When a really cheesy old song is played at clubs, they all dance to it with enthusiasm comparable to mine. When they get free felt hats, they wear them instead of jamming them into their bags. It's refreshing that they aren't always trying to look "cool" like Americans would.
The next day, we went to Camden where they have a HUUUGE street market. We wandered around for a few hours before finding our mecca: about 10 vintage stores, all in a row. Genevieve and I could only stand there and gape at the true beauty of the place before diving in. By the end, I was almost sick of vintage dresses, which I never thought I could say! I ended up buying an old Rolling Stones concert shirt. It started raining (a freezing rain) and Genevieve and I warmed up in Starbucks with tea... I'm English! (It was only mint tea, though, which my English friend Toby says "isn't real tea," but I think of it as almost the gateway drug into real tea.)
On Monday, we went to the Victoria and Albert Museum, a rather eclectic one with bronze replicas of famous statues (Michelangelo's David, Trajan's column, etc.), the largest collection of miniature portraits (most smaller than a credit card) and an incredibley cool photography room with awesome photos (everything from bears to awkward teenagers to John Lennon). We walked to Hyde Park and I got to see Albert Hall ("now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert HALLLL..."). We returned to the same creperie (the crepes must have cocaine sprinkled in them) and caught the late afternoon train to Paris.
York has a five-week spring break. I know. I KNOW. Isn't that craziness? Supposedly it's so that it will be the same length as the Christmas break, but it seems a bit much! They all call it "Easter" here, though. Everyone thinks it's so funny when I say spring break... "just like the drunk American kids in the movies!" What can I say, I just love living up to their American stereotypes.
My friend Genevieve from Oxy and Francie and I decided we would travel around Europe for four weeks, considering it would take 10 hours each way to go home and jetlag would eat up two of the weeks of our break if we decided to go back to California. Plus, it would cost money and what would we do there? We will never again be this close to Europe and wanted to take advantage of it.
Genevieve and I started out in London. We had both gotten less than five hours of sleep each the night before we left (me because I was freaking out over the phone with my parents, her because her flatmate had experienced a minor mental breakdown) and we passed out on the train. When we got the train station, I was surprised by my friend Kyna from Oxy. I knew that she was in London and wanted to meet up with me, but I had no idea she would meet me at the station! Needless to say, I was stoked.
She was there with her ex-boyfriend Morgan who was studying there. Morgan had once visited Oxy for Kyna's 21st birthday, so it was fun to see another familiar face. They took us out to lunch at possibly the best creperie I have ever been to and to cookies for Ben's cookies. They also helped us figure out the subway sytem (I mean, the TYUUUBE), which I was so grateful for because I used the knowledge for the rest of the trip (Paris, Madrid, Rome, etc.)
We met up with another Oxy person Justin that night (St. Patrick's Day) at a place called the Troubadour (where Paul Simon and Joni Mitchell have played!) We ordered a pitcher of really bad sangria and heard about his adventures in Amsterdam. We then moved onto a pub to get pints of Guinness (what else?) and saw all of the drunk English people dancing around (to "Sweet Home Alabama"... they are all inexplicably IN LOVE with this song) with their special Guinness hats on. If you bought four pints, you got a free felt hat with four-leaf clovers on it and they were ALL wearing theirs.
That's one of the things I love about English people. They get so into celebrating. When they go to themed parties, they all dress up. When a really cheesy old song is played at clubs, they all dance to it with enthusiasm comparable to mine. When they get free felt hats, they wear them instead of jamming them into their bags. It's refreshing that they aren't always trying to look "cool" like Americans would.
The next day, we went to Camden where they have a HUUUGE street market. We wandered around for a few hours before finding our mecca: about 10 vintage stores, all in a row. Genevieve and I could only stand there and gape at the true beauty of the place before diving in. By the end, I was almost sick of vintage dresses, which I never thought I could say! I ended up buying an old Rolling Stones concert shirt. It started raining (a freezing rain) and Genevieve and I warmed up in Starbucks with tea... I'm English! (It was only mint tea, though, which my English friend Toby says "isn't real tea," but I think of it as almost the gateway drug into real tea.)
On Monday, we went to the Victoria and Albert Museum, a rather eclectic one with bronze replicas of famous statues (Michelangelo's David, Trajan's column, etc.), the largest collection of miniature portraits (most smaller than a credit card) and an incredibley cool photography room with awesome photos (everything from bears to awkward teenagers to John Lennon). We walked to Hyde Park and I got to see Albert Hall ("now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert HALLLL..."). We returned to the same creperie (the crepes must have cocaine sprinkled in them) and caught the late afternoon train to Paris.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Nousing it up
In all of my descriptions of fabulous weekend adventures, I have neglected to talk about my experiences on campus (kind of weird, considering it is 5/7ths of my life here). To be perfectly honest with you, my life on campus is basically Nouse, the newspaper. So this entry is dedicated to them.
As you all know, I was pretty freaked when I first joined (I'm the weird outsider that people have to put up with during socials!), but to my surprise, the British kids really reached out to me. This was strange to me (considering English people tend to be awkward with me at the start), but I think they sensed my loneliness and unhappiness and stepped up to bat. (I just realized English people wouldn't understand that cliche... ironic!)
Every Tuesday night, we go for drinks after our meeting at an on-campus bar. It only took about two of these events for the English kids to realize how easily I get drunk, and now they buy me pints just to see me get tipsy. I usually try to deny them this opportunity--"No, I really shouldn't have anymore"--but I've always been a people-pleaser, even when I was 4 and Whitney wanted to play tag and I said OK even though I hated the game. Eventually, I always give in.
I don't get falling-down drunk or anything, just enough to get a little easier to talk to. I also get so much more loving when I am drunk, which makes them laugh. I start to radiate love to everyone in the room--a strange verb, but the proper one. Sometimes I feel sheepish about this later, but I really do feel like when I'm drunk I'm almost more myself than when I'm sober. I always feel so much gratitude towards my friends that I hesitate to show when I don't have alcohol in me. So really, I am being more honest after a few ciders.
I also tend to get more loud when I am drunk. This happened the other day when one of the boys, Jamie, started talking about America and said, "Texas and California aren't that different, are they?" My voice rose a few octaves and decibels as I screeched, "Whattt??" I wasn't exactly offended--more just shocked that anyone, anywhere in the world would believe such a thing. The wonderful editor-in-chief Heidi felt bad for me and made him buy me a Guinness (even though I kept insisting I wasn't offended). I then asked him if he had ever been to America. One guess what his answer was!
The weird thing about English people is that they don't realize how diverse America is. England being about the size of Mississippi, I don't think they really have a concept how huge our country is and how much people in different states can differ. California people are totally different from those in Washington, Massachusetts, Florida and Louisiana. They also don't realize how frustrating it is when the majority of your country disagrees with you. Even the most conservative party in England is still pro-National Health Care, pro-choice, pro-gun control and environmentally conscious. Whenever they talk to me about the Iraq war, I just kind of throw up my hands and say, "Don't talk to me about it--I didn't vote for the scum bag."
There are some things that tickle them about my Americaness, though. They love the way I pronounce words ("handjob" turns into "hayyyyyyyyyndjob") and they're so eager to hear California slang. I taught them "hyphy" (slang for drunk) and they found it so weird. I told the kids in my house about freaking and they laughed about it for the rest of the day and kept saying, "I'm going to freak all over you!" I kept having to say, "No, it's freak WITH you." They kept asking me, "But doesn't that just make it so obvious when a boy likes a girl?" and I say, "... Yeah, that's kind of the point."
English kids also have the weirdest sense of humor. They tend to tease each other mercilessly and laugh about it. My mom is the queen of sarcasm and sort of passed it onto me, so I'm no stranger to it. The thing with us, though, is that we say sarcastic comments in a dry voice, roll our eyes, etc. English kids say it totally deadpan and it makes you reel back for a second before they laugh and assure you, "I'm just kidding." I'm still getting used to it.
Two of the girls from Nouse read my blog (yikes) and they said they really enjoyed it and that they hoped I would write an article about the difference between American people and British people. Considering that's all I've been writing about for the past two months, I took their offer and wrote something one night. The next day, the editors told me how much they loved it and how they were going to put it in a spread.
This (gulp) meant I would have to have pictures taken of me. They told me to "bring something American, like a flag" to the photoshoot. I laughed and laughed, saying, "Oh, right, I carry an American flag EVERYWHERE I go!" Finally, one of the British boys said he had an I HEART NY t-shirt I could wear.
The picture was supposed to be of me standing in the shirt with English people walking around me, blurred by the long shutter speed. This meant we had to go one of the main dining halls to get people to walk around me. I already hate having my picture taken (I never, never look good) and this was one of the most awkward experiences of my life. Everyone was staring at me, and I was certain they were wondering, "Why are they taking pictures of her? She's not that pretty." People kept stopping before the camera would go off, waiting to walk, and the photographer and I would have to encourage them to walk around me. The ordeal was finally over after about a half-hour, and the picture didn't turn out too bad (even though you can see my belly paunch a bit).
When the article came out, the response was overwhelming. Everyone was coming up to me and telling me how much they liked it, which totally floored me considering English kids wouldn't go out of their way to talk to someone if they had a gun to their head. One of the boys on staff who had moved to England when he was 13 told me "it's the article I wish I could have written." My Oxy friend said her English friends encouraged her to read the article. One girl I didn't even know messaged me about it on facebook!
The features editor asked me to write another article next issue and I heartily agreed. I was so thrilled, yet in the back of my mind, there is a little voice with what I call the Harper Lee syndrome: what if my next story isn't as good? That would suck. But then again, Harper Lee kind of was a fraidy cat, and it doesn't really matter if the next one isn't as good. I have enough compliments now to live off for at least a decade.
I also love being in the office with the newspaper kids. It's the tiniest office I have ever seen, and for one entire weekend about 20 of us are all crammed in there (with only about five seats, mind you). On Sunday nights, most of them don't even sleep until 4 p.m. Monday afternoon (and you thought Octagon paste-ups were bad, Ma). I usually stay until about 6 a.m., doing copy editing some of the time but mostly just soaking up the atmosphere. They're all incredibley sweet to me and every so often will tap me on the shoulder just to say hi or talk for a few minutes. The other night I was getting kind of homesick for the Oxy Weekly and kind of retreating into myself when one of the boys, Nicky, came over to me and smiled and said, "Hi, Kelly, how are you doing??" and conversed with me for ten minutes. They treat me like I've known them for years rather than 60 days and one of the boys (while walking to town) hugged me and said, "Awww, you'll go back to California and forget all about us!"
This shocked me because I was thinking the exact opposite--I'll go back to California and they'll forget all about ME. I was incredibley touched that he said that and assured him that they would just all have to come to Oxy to visit me and I could take them to the beach. I'd love to host them just to see the reaction they would get from girls, to be totally honest with you.
It's almost a cruel joke that I am friends with them because they are all younger than me, whereas most of my Oxy friends are older than me. This means that next year, the majority of my Oxy friends will be gone and I will sulk and miss my York friends. The only solution to this would be for every one of them to apply to Oxy and have a mass exodus to LA... think I can convince them??
As you all know, I was pretty freaked when I first joined (I'm the weird outsider that people have to put up with during socials!), but to my surprise, the British kids really reached out to me. This was strange to me (considering English people tend to be awkward with me at the start), but I think they sensed my loneliness and unhappiness and stepped up to bat. (I just realized English people wouldn't understand that cliche... ironic!)
Every Tuesday night, we go for drinks after our meeting at an on-campus bar. It only took about two of these events for the English kids to realize how easily I get drunk, and now they buy me pints just to see me get tipsy. I usually try to deny them this opportunity--"No, I really shouldn't have anymore"--but I've always been a people-pleaser, even when I was 4 and Whitney wanted to play tag and I said OK even though I hated the game. Eventually, I always give in.
I don't get falling-down drunk or anything, just enough to get a little easier to talk to. I also get so much more loving when I am drunk, which makes them laugh. I start to radiate love to everyone in the room--a strange verb, but the proper one. Sometimes I feel sheepish about this later, but I really do feel like when I'm drunk I'm almost more myself than when I'm sober. I always feel so much gratitude towards my friends that I hesitate to show when I don't have alcohol in me. So really, I am being more honest after a few ciders.
I also tend to get more loud when I am drunk. This happened the other day when one of the boys, Jamie, started talking about America and said, "Texas and California aren't that different, are they?" My voice rose a few octaves and decibels as I screeched, "Whattt??" I wasn't exactly offended--more just shocked that anyone, anywhere in the world would believe such a thing. The wonderful editor-in-chief Heidi felt bad for me and made him buy me a Guinness (even though I kept insisting I wasn't offended). I then asked him if he had ever been to America. One guess what his answer was!
The weird thing about English people is that they don't realize how diverse America is. England being about the size of Mississippi, I don't think they really have a concept how huge our country is and how much people in different states can differ. California people are totally different from those in Washington, Massachusetts, Florida and Louisiana. They also don't realize how frustrating it is when the majority of your country disagrees with you. Even the most conservative party in England is still pro-National Health Care, pro-choice, pro-gun control and environmentally conscious. Whenever they talk to me about the Iraq war, I just kind of throw up my hands and say, "Don't talk to me about it--I didn't vote for the scum bag."
There are some things that tickle them about my Americaness, though. They love the way I pronounce words ("handjob" turns into "hayyyyyyyyyndjob") and they're so eager to hear California slang. I taught them "hyphy" (slang for drunk) and they found it so weird. I told the kids in my house about freaking and they laughed about it for the rest of the day and kept saying, "I'm going to freak all over you!" I kept having to say, "No, it's freak WITH you." They kept asking me, "But doesn't that just make it so obvious when a boy likes a girl?" and I say, "... Yeah, that's kind of the point."
English kids also have the weirdest sense of humor. They tend to tease each other mercilessly and laugh about it. My mom is the queen of sarcasm and sort of passed it onto me, so I'm no stranger to it. The thing with us, though, is that we say sarcastic comments in a dry voice, roll our eyes, etc. English kids say it totally deadpan and it makes you reel back for a second before they laugh and assure you, "I'm just kidding." I'm still getting used to it.
Two of the girls from Nouse read my blog (yikes) and they said they really enjoyed it and that they hoped I would write an article about the difference between American people and British people. Considering that's all I've been writing about for the past two months, I took their offer and wrote something one night. The next day, the editors told me how much they loved it and how they were going to put it in a spread.
This (gulp) meant I would have to have pictures taken of me. They told me to "bring something American, like a flag" to the photoshoot. I laughed and laughed, saying, "Oh, right, I carry an American flag EVERYWHERE I go!" Finally, one of the British boys said he had an I HEART NY t-shirt I could wear.
The picture was supposed to be of me standing in the shirt with English people walking around me, blurred by the long shutter speed. This meant we had to go one of the main dining halls to get people to walk around me. I already hate having my picture taken (I never, never look good) and this was one of the most awkward experiences of my life. Everyone was staring at me, and I was certain they were wondering, "Why are they taking pictures of her? She's not that pretty." People kept stopping before the camera would go off, waiting to walk, and the photographer and I would have to encourage them to walk around me. The ordeal was finally over after about a half-hour, and the picture didn't turn out too bad (even though you can see my belly paunch a bit).
When the article came out, the response was overwhelming. Everyone was coming up to me and telling me how much they liked it, which totally floored me considering English kids wouldn't go out of their way to talk to someone if they had a gun to their head. One of the boys on staff who had moved to England when he was 13 told me "it's the article I wish I could have written." My Oxy friend said her English friends encouraged her to read the article. One girl I didn't even know messaged me about it on facebook!
The features editor asked me to write another article next issue and I heartily agreed. I was so thrilled, yet in the back of my mind, there is a little voice with what I call the Harper Lee syndrome: what if my next story isn't as good? That would suck. But then again, Harper Lee kind of was a fraidy cat, and it doesn't really matter if the next one isn't as good. I have enough compliments now to live off for at least a decade.
I also love being in the office with the newspaper kids. It's the tiniest office I have ever seen, and for one entire weekend about 20 of us are all crammed in there (with only about five seats, mind you). On Sunday nights, most of them don't even sleep until 4 p.m. Monday afternoon (and you thought Octagon paste-ups were bad, Ma). I usually stay until about 6 a.m., doing copy editing some of the time but mostly just soaking up the atmosphere. They're all incredibley sweet to me and every so often will tap me on the shoulder just to say hi or talk for a few minutes. The other night I was getting kind of homesick for the Oxy Weekly and kind of retreating into myself when one of the boys, Nicky, came over to me and smiled and said, "Hi, Kelly, how are you doing??" and conversed with me for ten minutes. They treat me like I've known them for years rather than 60 days and one of the boys (while walking to town) hugged me and said, "Awww, you'll go back to California and forget all about us!"
This shocked me because I was thinking the exact opposite--I'll go back to California and they'll forget all about ME. I was incredibley touched that he said that and assured him that they would just all have to come to Oxy to visit me and I could take them to the beach. I'd love to host them just to see the reaction they would get from girls, to be totally honest with you.
It's almost a cruel joke that I am friends with them because they are all younger than me, whereas most of my Oxy friends are older than me. This means that next year, the majority of my Oxy friends will be gone and I will sulk and miss my York friends. The only solution to this would be for every one of them to apply to Oxy and have a mass exodus to LA... think I can convince them??
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
"Liverpudlian" is just about the coolest word ever... much cooler than "Oxfordian"
It's very strange. You start a travel blog and think that you are writing to only three or four people. It is only when you stop writing for two weeks when readers start coming out of the woodwork and begin demanding more updates. I'm just happy that you are enjoying my posts! It's nice to know that there are so many of you (although a little intimidating).
To make this a bit more manageable, I'm splitting it up into two sections so that you can read it at your leisure.
LIVERPOOL
Two weeks ago, Francie and I went to Liverpool (if you need to ask why, I weep for you). I found a hostel in my guidebook about a half-hour away from the docks (where the Beatles stuff is) but read that the owner had seen the Beatles play in Liverpool before they got famous. That's all it took.
The train station was unremarkable except that it had four characteristics of the worst things about England:
-there were no trashcans. English people have an irrational fear of trashcans and will put them only in places where they are required. Most bathrooms don't even have them. True, the bathrooms all have air hand dryers, but what about other things you need to throw away? Getting in touch with my inner kindergartener, I just refused to be a litterbug and walked around for five minutes looking for a place to dispose of my coffee. I finally gave it to someone behind a counter to throw away.
-the bathrooms had nothing but air hand dryers. I wouldn't mind this so much if I didn't have to go out into the 40-degree weather with my hands still partly damp and feel them freeze in my pockets. Not a fun situation.
-you must pay to pee. WHY do you have to pay 20 pence (40 cents) to relieve your bladder? I felt like going on the floor just to spite them. Luckily, I was totally sober, so I paid like a good little girl.
-no drinking fountains. Do they WANT people to die of dehydration? No, they just want to charge you an arm and a leg for bottled water.
We got to our hostel and the owner talked our ear off for half-an-hour while serving us tea (when in Rome...). He had seen the Beatles play more than 200 times and had even talked to Paul. He even formed a band who placed third in a talent competition where the Beatles placed fifth. So he can brag that he was in a band better than the Beatles! The hostel was OK—the shower was kind of weird and you could tell the building was old—but one of the bunks had the lyrics of "Tomorrow Never Knows" inscribed on the wooden panels. Only in Liverpool!
On Saturday, we walked to the docks to go to the museum. The buildings were old and run-down, but they were decorated with cool paintings (one dog-themed one reminded me a little of Andy Warhol). On our way, we passed by Chinatown. It should be named "Chinavillage," since it was only about two blocks long. Apparently it has the tallest Chinese arch outside of China, given to the city by Beijing because it had the oldest Chinese population in all of Europe.
We got to the docks and had lunch at a crepe place before heading into the museum. The day we went was Strawberry Day, the 40th anniversary of "Strawberry Fields Forever/Penny Lane" being released. We got free stickers and pins (or "badges," the English word. The English cashiers joked, "You don't just get the pin—you get the whole badge!" and collapsed into laughter.) Of course, this didn't mean the fare was any cheaper (about 10 pounds a pop, or $20). Luckily, we got money off because of where we were staying/the fact that we were students, so it only cost about 12 pounds for the both of us. I think they know that tourists will pony up any amount for the Fab Four, which is sad but true.
The museum was kind of cheesy. You would walk into a room with papier mache stone walls and flashing neon signs and the audio device in your ear would say, "This is the famous club quarter in Hamburg..." and you would think, "Ummmmm... 'kay." There was so much memorabilia behind glass and even life-sized Beatles mannequins, which were a little freaky. Once you got into the psychedelic stage of their career (my favorite), they had a life-sized version of the "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" album cover and a yellow submarine with fish out the windows and a periscope. That was definitely my favorite room.
I was a little miffed because they had a whole white room for John Lennon with a white piano and another separate room with John Lennon's glasses that you could look through, but then only a tiny framed plaque on the exit door in honor of George Harrison's death. I know that John Lennon was assassinated and "taken in his prime" and all that, but geez, George deserved at least maybe half a room.
We then went crazy with the Beatles gift shop (as every sane human being would) and then walked around Albert Dock for a little bit, finally ending up in the Tate Modern museum. It was very small and manageable with impressive names like Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol and others. And it was FREE! Anything in England that is free makes me basically want to bow down and worship its very existence.
That night, we went for Chinese food and proved to ourselves that English people just do not know how to make Chinese food. It's so tasteless (except for maybe the duck wraps). We then went clubbing to the Cavern Quarter, where the Beatles started out. There were millllllions of kids our age because of the three universities in the city. It was rather fun, although different to be in huge crowds of college-age kids. We got mixed drinks at a bar and walked around soaking in the atmosphere.
Many of my friends at York had teasingly warned me about people in this city. Liverpudlians are basically looked down upon by all of England. Everyone told me to "watch my wallet" and things like that, but I never once felt unsafe there. The only strange time was when we were walking and I all of a sudden felt someone slap my butt. I turned around quickly and a boy ran away with all of his friends pointing and laughing, saying, "He did it!" Not knowing what to say, I just said, "OK... just don't do it again." (WOW, I HAVE STELLAR FLIRTING SKILLS.) Another boy in the group said, "Don't worry—he just thinks you're gorrrrrgeous. You're twins, aren't you?"
Francie and I tried to figure out whether we preferred the normal English boy attitude of just being ignored or the Liverpudlian way of acting like a 13-year-old. I think the latter won, because at least it meant they noticed us!
On Sunday, we went on the Magical Mystery Tour (on a bus) with our new friend Lisa from the hostel. She was on month 6 of her 10-month backpacking tour alone (talk about my own personal hell). She told us that she had spent three months in Australia, one month in New Zealand, two months in Thailand and one month in Hong Kong. We could practically hear our dad screaming, "But there's no culture there!" but we bit our tongues.
The bus tour might have been the coolest thing we did the entire weekend, as it took us to Strawberry Fields, Penny Lane, the church field where Paul first met John (that, coincidentally, had a gravestone with "Eleanor Rigby" written on it) and all of the Beatles' first homes. The tour guide was a really fun guy with the strongest Liverpudlian accent I had heard, which made me giddy because it reminded me of Beatles songs. He even pointed out to us the different locations of the song "Penny Lane." The barber shop is now a haircutting salon and the shelter in the middle of the roundabout is a derelict building, etc. He even shed some light on some song lyrics (John used to play on the then-private lawns of Strawberry Fields and when his mother got upset, he said, "Don't worry, they're not going to hang me"... "There's nothing to get hung about.")
He also told us that the signs for Penny Lane were painted on the walls until about four months ago, when the city finally decided people could be trusted not to steal them. Of course, hundreds have been taken since then and the one we saw had only been there since that Friday. He told us that since the lane was right across from university dorms, students will steal them for their parents! Unfortunately, Francie and I weren't so crafty.
We had lunch at The Grapes, an old pub that was a hangout of the four where they used to sit outside the ladies' room and watch the girls come out. Lisa then bid us sayonara and we went to the Chinese New Year that they had that day. Francie and I were excited because we had slept through the real New Year's (jetlag sucks) and we saw this as our "do-over" New Year's. We then took a quick jaunt around the huuuuge Anglican cathedral and lit candles for our dad's mom. We talked to a boy who lived at the hostel as we packed up who told us about being in the Royal Navy (two boys in one weekend? I need to live in Liverpool.)
OXFORD
The next weekend, I went to see Francie in Oxford. We had planned this trip well in advance because our friend Elizabeth (an old family friend, our dads went to preschool together and we see their family every summer on vacation) was studying abroad in Spain and was visiting her friend who's studying abroad in Oxford. Both F and she met me at the train station, which was exciting (and not just because I was glad to be free of the three-and-a-half-hour train ride where people were actually standing in the aisles). We had an Italian dinner and then went on a pub crawl around the area, finishing at the Eagle and Child, where J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis drank (which Francie reminded me about around 27 times). The first bar we went to even supposedly had a witch's broom found in one of the upstairs rooms, which was exciting.
It was so fun to introduce Liz to the pub culture—recommend our favorites (Strongbow and Guinness), find cozy corners to snuggle into, help her sort out change (I recognize the small change! I've truly assimilated!... not). Liz almost began talking to the bartenders in Spanish, which I found very amusing. She ordered a winter version of a Pimm's cup, which I had never seen before because I've always been in England during the summer.
We then met up with her friends Doug and Akriti and went to a random, pretty lame bar called Que Pasa. We heard all the cool music as we lined up to get inside and then, as soon as we got in there, they played nothing but random techno. There were only about 30 people in the club and a few 40-year-olds, which would have been funny if I wasn't so scared of ending up like them. All of the gay guys danced with the girls, so the guy-girl ratio was evened out a little bit in the end.
On Saturday, we went to high tea with Liz at one of the fanciest restaurants in town. It was so delicious, especially the scones and clotted cream (my mouth waters as I write this). It was even better because I have been losing weight recently so I could eat it without a smidge of guilt (OK, maybe a smidge). I also had lots of milk and sugar in my tea, which all of the English people cry over and insists ruins it, but sometimes I enjoy being an ugly American just to tease them.
We went on a shopping spree where I found bird earrings (I am obsessed with birds, so this was like discovering the Messiah... kind of) and went to evensong at the Brasenose church after Francie showed me around the college a little bit. Evensong is a shorter church service on Monday evenings where there is a lot of singing and the whole choir comes. Being heathen Neukoms, we didn't know any of the songs, but church hymns aren't exactly hard to figure out when the organ plays the tune before you even start singing. We said "amen" to their prayer of god saving the queen, which was a new experience!
After evensong, we went to Formal Hall dressed up (the Oxford kids just wear their academic robes/cape things). The meat was overcooked (typical) and there was a huge Yorkshire pudding (again, typical), but they broke new ground because there was actually vegetables! When I saw it, I silently hallelujahed as I loaded about four ladlefuls onto my plate (luckily, everyone else had already helped themselves). I had never enjoyed broccoli so much.
Francie's friend Harry came to meet me next, which was amusing because he seemed very nervous (and, as you know, I am about the least nerve-wracking person ever). He invited us to a really fun concert, which was this opera lady singing but she was very dramatic and explained each song (in German and French) to us, including one about a violet who hopes to get picked but is eventually stepped on, and another about a woman who tells her lover that she is sick of the him and his laugh sounds worse than the braying of a donkey. She also convincingly acted out a drunk woman in a Hungarian bar who is hitting on the violin player. It was amazing.
The teachers had a reception in the faculty lounge for after-dinner snacks and drinks. Francie and I watched this cartoon when we were little called "Recess" about a group of fourth-graders and their adventures during their free time. In one episode, they wonder what the teacher's lounge is like, and the scene cuts to masseuses and candlelit tables with teachers ordering lobster tails and wine. This made us laugh so much, because (at least at Country Day) the faculty lounge is no more than a large table, a few plastic chairs and some old coffee.
Here, though, I could imagine the teachers actually being able to order filet mignon. "Elaborate" is an understatement. There was beatiful mahogany wood paneling, 400-year-old oil paintings, Oriental rugs... the works. Plates were filled with amazing fruit, truffles and even Turkish delight (of "Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe" fame). They had all-you-can-drink champagne, wine and port, which the teachers kept pushing on us the minute we finished our glass (so different from America, I could barely smother my laughter). In the end, I discovered how much I like port (like red wine, but not bitter! A little like plum juice) and Harry and I got a little tipsy on it. Harry was so much easier to talk to with a little liquid courage, and he even recited the entirety of "Kubla Khan" (after about four glasses of port, mind you). He was so fascinating to talk to.
At about midnight, it was only the three of us and the president and some other important lady, and we talked to them about the history of the paintings. Finally, the president asked us what colleges we went to in America. Stanford, oh yes, all well and good. I stood there. "Um, I go to this tiny school called Occidental..." He broke in with a "Is that in LA?"
My jaw hit the ground. No one, I mean NO ONE in England knows about Oxy. Heck, even in CA, it's hard to come by someone outside the Valley who knows about it. In England, it's just, "What a weird name! Did you get in there ACCIDENTALLY??" and me trying to refrain from kneeing them in the crotch. I was so flustered all I could say was, "How did you KNOW??" and he said that he had lived for California for five years. But... still! It impressed me so much. President of possibly the most well-known, prestigious, richest universities in the world? Eh. Knows about Oxy? Whoaaaaa (stares in awe)!!!
Sunday was more teas and shopping and then I headed home, luckily on a less-crowded train. I have grown to love the York train station and I feel like I am coming home every time I arrive. It's a very wonderful feeling. The other day, I started crying about Oxy, missing everyone there. The revolutionary thing about this time, though, was that it wasn't that I didn't want to be at York, but rather that I wanted all of my California friends here so I could see them. I didn't want to leave York, but rather I just missed my old home while being content with my new one. And that has to count for something.
To make this a bit more manageable, I'm splitting it up into two sections so that you can read it at your leisure.
LIVERPOOL
Two weeks ago, Francie and I went to Liverpool (if you need to ask why, I weep for you). I found a hostel in my guidebook about a half-hour away from the docks (where the Beatles stuff is) but read that the owner had seen the Beatles play in Liverpool before they got famous. That's all it took.
The train station was unremarkable except that it had four characteristics of the worst things about England:
-there were no trashcans. English people have an irrational fear of trashcans and will put them only in places where they are required. Most bathrooms don't even have them. True, the bathrooms all have air hand dryers, but what about other things you need to throw away? Getting in touch with my inner kindergartener, I just refused to be a litterbug and walked around for five minutes looking for a place to dispose of my coffee. I finally gave it to someone behind a counter to throw away.
-the bathrooms had nothing but air hand dryers. I wouldn't mind this so much if I didn't have to go out into the 40-degree weather with my hands still partly damp and feel them freeze in my pockets. Not a fun situation.
-you must pay to pee. WHY do you have to pay 20 pence (40 cents) to relieve your bladder? I felt like going on the floor just to spite them. Luckily, I was totally sober, so I paid like a good little girl.
-no drinking fountains. Do they WANT people to die of dehydration? No, they just want to charge you an arm and a leg for bottled water.
We got to our hostel and the owner talked our ear off for half-an-hour while serving us tea (when in Rome...). He had seen the Beatles play more than 200 times and had even talked to Paul. He even formed a band who placed third in a talent competition where the Beatles placed fifth. So he can brag that he was in a band better than the Beatles! The hostel was OK—the shower was kind of weird and you could tell the building was old—but one of the bunks had the lyrics of "Tomorrow Never Knows" inscribed on the wooden panels. Only in Liverpool!
On Saturday, we walked to the docks to go to the museum. The buildings were old and run-down, but they were decorated with cool paintings (one dog-themed one reminded me a little of Andy Warhol). On our way, we passed by Chinatown. It should be named "Chinavillage," since it was only about two blocks long. Apparently it has the tallest Chinese arch outside of China, given to the city by Beijing because it had the oldest Chinese population in all of Europe.
We got to the docks and had lunch at a crepe place before heading into the museum. The day we went was Strawberry Day, the 40th anniversary of "Strawberry Fields Forever/Penny Lane" being released. We got free stickers and pins (or "badges," the English word. The English cashiers joked, "You don't just get the pin—you get the whole badge!" and collapsed into laughter.) Of course, this didn't mean the fare was any cheaper (about 10 pounds a pop, or $20). Luckily, we got money off because of where we were staying/the fact that we were students, so it only cost about 12 pounds for the both of us. I think they know that tourists will pony up any amount for the Fab Four, which is sad but true.
The museum was kind of cheesy. You would walk into a room with papier mache stone walls and flashing neon signs and the audio device in your ear would say, "This is the famous club quarter in Hamburg..." and you would think, "Ummmmm... 'kay." There was so much memorabilia behind glass and even life-sized Beatles mannequins, which were a little freaky. Once you got into the psychedelic stage of their career (my favorite), they had a life-sized version of the "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" album cover and a yellow submarine with fish out the windows and a periscope. That was definitely my favorite room.I was a little miffed because they had a whole white room for John Lennon with a white piano and another separate room with John Lennon's glasses that you could look through, but then only a tiny framed plaque on the exit door in honor of George Harrison's death. I know that John Lennon was assassinated and "taken in his prime" and all that, but geez, George deserved at least maybe half a room.
We then went crazy with the Beatles gift shop (as every sane human being would) and then walked around Albert Dock for a little bit, finally ending up in the Tate Modern museum. It was very small and manageable with impressive names like Roy Lichtenstein, Andy Warhol and others. And it was FREE! Anything in England that is free makes me basically want to bow down and worship its very existence.
That night, we went for Chinese food and proved to ourselves that English people just do not know how to make Chinese food. It's so tasteless (except for maybe the duck wraps). We then went clubbing to the Cavern Quarter, where the Beatles started out. There were millllllions of kids our age because of the three universities in the city. It was rather fun, although different to be in huge crowds of college-age kids. We got mixed drinks at a bar and walked around soaking in the atmosphere.Many of my friends at York had teasingly warned me about people in this city. Liverpudlians are basically looked down upon by all of England. Everyone told me to "watch my wallet" and things like that, but I never once felt unsafe there. The only strange time was when we were walking and I all of a sudden felt someone slap my butt. I turned around quickly and a boy ran away with all of his friends pointing and laughing, saying, "He did it!" Not knowing what to say, I just said, "OK... just don't do it again." (WOW, I HAVE STELLAR FLIRTING SKILLS.) Another boy in the group said, "Don't worry—he just thinks you're gorrrrrgeous. You're twins, aren't you?"
Francie and I tried to figure out whether we preferred the normal English boy attitude of just being ignored or the Liverpudlian way of acting like a 13-year-old. I think the latter won, because at least it meant they noticed us!
On Sunday, we went on the Magical Mystery Tour (on a bus) with our new friend Lisa from the hostel. She was on month 6 of her 10-month backpacking tour alone (talk about my own personal hell). She told us that she had spent three months in Australia, one month in New Zealand, two months in Thailand and one month in Hong Kong. We could practically hear our dad screaming, "But there's no culture there!" but we bit our tongues.
The bus tour might have been the coolest thing we did the entire weekend, as it took us to Strawberry Fields, Penny Lane, the church field where Paul first met John (that, coincidentally, had a gravestone with "Eleanor Rigby" written on it) and all of the Beatles' first homes. The tour guide was a really fun guy with the strongest Liverpudlian accent I had heard, which made me giddy because it reminded me of Beatles songs. He even pointed out to us the different locations of the song "Penny Lane." The barber shop is now a haircutting salon and the shelter in the middle of the roundabout is a derelict building, etc. He even shed some light on some song lyrics (John used to play on the then-private lawns of Strawberry Fields and when his mother got upset, he said, "Don't worry, they're not going to hang me"... "There's nothing to get hung about.") 
He also told us that the signs for Penny Lane were painted on the walls until about four months ago, when the city finally decided people could be trusted not to steal them. Of course, hundreds have been taken since then and the one we saw had only been there since that Friday. He told us that since the lane was right across from university dorms, students will steal them for their parents! Unfortunately, Francie and I weren't so crafty.We had lunch at The Grapes, an old pub that was a hangout of the four where they used to sit outside the ladies' room and watch the girls come out. Lisa then bid us sayonara and we went to the Chinese New Year that they had that day. Francie and I were excited because we had slept through the real New Year's (jetlag sucks) and we saw this as our "do-over" New Year's. We then took a quick jaunt around the huuuuge Anglican cathedral and lit candles for our dad's mom. We talked to a boy who lived at the hostel as we packed up who told us about being in the Royal Navy (two boys in one weekend? I need to live in Liverpool.)
OXFORD
The next weekend, I went to see Francie in Oxford. We had planned this trip well in advance because our friend Elizabeth (an old family friend, our dads went to preschool together and we see their family every summer on vacation) was studying abroad in Spain and was visiting her friend who's studying abroad in Oxford. Both F and she met me at the train station, which was exciting (and not just because I was glad to be free of the three-and-a-half-hour train ride where people were actually standing in the aisles). We had an Italian dinner and then went on a pub crawl around the area, finishing at the Eagle and Child, where J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis drank (which Francie reminded me about around 27 times). The first bar we went to even supposedly had a witch's broom found in one of the upstairs rooms, which was exciting.
It was so fun to introduce Liz to the pub culture—recommend our favorites (Strongbow and Guinness), find cozy corners to snuggle into, help her sort out change (I recognize the small change! I've truly assimilated!... not). Liz almost began talking to the bartenders in Spanish, which I found very amusing. She ordered a winter version of a Pimm's cup, which I had never seen before because I've always been in England during the summer.We then met up with her friends Doug and Akriti and went to a random, pretty lame bar called Que Pasa. We heard all the cool music as we lined up to get inside and then, as soon as we got in there, they played nothing but random techno. There were only about 30 people in the club and a few 40-year-olds, which would have been funny if I wasn't so scared of ending up like them. All of the gay guys danced with the girls, so the guy-girl ratio was evened out a little bit in the end.
On Saturday, we went to high tea with Liz at one of the fanciest restaurants in town. It was so delicious, especially the scones and clotted cream (my mouth waters as I write this). It was even better because I have been losing weight recently so I could eat it without a smidge of guilt (OK, maybe a smidge). I also had lots of milk and sugar in my tea, which all of the English people cry over and insists ruins it, but sometimes I enjoy being an ugly American just to tease them.We went on a shopping spree where I found bird earrings (I am obsessed with birds, so this was like discovering the Messiah... kind of) and went to evensong at the Brasenose church after Francie showed me around the college a little bit. Evensong is a shorter church service on Monday evenings where there is a lot of singing and the whole choir comes. Being heathen Neukoms, we didn't know any of the songs, but church hymns aren't exactly hard to figure out when the organ plays the tune before you even start singing. We said "amen" to their prayer of god saving the queen, which was a new experience!
After evensong, we went to Formal Hall dressed up (the Oxford kids just wear their academic robes/cape things). The meat was overcooked (typical) and there was a huge Yorkshire pudding (again, typical), but they broke new ground because there was actually vegetables! When I saw it, I silently hallelujahed as I loaded about four ladlefuls onto my plate (luckily, everyone else had already helped themselves). I had never enjoyed broccoli so much.
Francie's friend Harry came to meet me next, which was amusing because he seemed very nervous (and, as you know, I am about the least nerve-wracking person ever). He invited us to a really fun concert, which was this opera lady singing but she was very dramatic and explained each song (in German and French) to us, including one about a violet who hopes to get picked but is eventually stepped on, and another about a woman who tells her lover that she is sick of the him and his laugh sounds worse than the braying of a donkey. She also convincingly acted out a drunk woman in a Hungarian bar who is hitting on the violin player. It was amazing.
The teachers had a reception in the faculty lounge for after-dinner snacks and drinks. Francie and I watched this cartoon when we were little called "Recess" about a group of fourth-graders and their adventures during their free time. In one episode, they wonder what the teacher's lounge is like, and the scene cuts to masseuses and candlelit tables with teachers ordering lobster tails and wine. This made us laugh so much, because (at least at Country Day) the faculty lounge is no more than a large table, a few plastic chairs and some old coffee.
Here, though, I could imagine the teachers actually being able to order filet mignon. "Elaborate" is an understatement. There was beatiful mahogany wood paneling, 400-year-old oil paintings, Oriental rugs... the works. Plates were filled with amazing fruit, truffles and even Turkish delight (of "Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe" fame). They had all-you-can-drink champagne, wine and port, which the teachers kept pushing on us the minute we finished our glass (so different from America, I could barely smother my laughter). In the end, I discovered how much I like port (like red wine, but not bitter! A little like plum juice) and Harry and I got a little tipsy on it. Harry was so much easier to talk to with a little liquid courage, and he even recited the entirety of "Kubla Khan" (after about four glasses of port, mind you). He was so fascinating to talk to.
At about midnight, it was only the three of us and the president and some other important lady, and we talked to them about the history of the paintings. Finally, the president asked us what colleges we went to in America. Stanford, oh yes, all well and good. I stood there. "Um, I go to this tiny school called Occidental..." He broke in with a "Is that in LA?"
My jaw hit the ground. No one, I mean NO ONE in England knows about Oxy. Heck, even in CA, it's hard to come by someone outside the Valley who knows about it. In England, it's just, "What a weird name! Did you get in there ACCIDENTALLY??" and me trying to refrain from kneeing them in the crotch. I was so flustered all I could say was, "How did you KNOW??" and he said that he had lived for California for five years. But... still! It impressed me so much. President of possibly the most well-known, prestigious, richest universities in the world? Eh. Knows about Oxy? Whoaaaaa (stares in awe)!!!
Sunday was more teas and shopping and then I headed home, luckily on a less-crowded train. I have grown to love the York train station and I feel like I am coming home every time I arrive. It's a very wonderful feeling. The other day, I started crying about Oxy, missing everyone there. The revolutionary thing about this time, though, was that it wasn't that I didn't want to be at York, but rather that I wanted all of my California friends here so I could see them. I didn't want to leave York, but rather I just missed my old home while being content with my new one. And that has to count for something.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
A multimedia introduction to York!
I thought I'd break up the huge clumps of text with some videos. None of them are mine, just ones I found randomly on the Internet. Hooray for youtube! (Note: I found the short and sweet ones for you, as I hate sitting through a five-minute video as much as the next person.)
This first one is a cute introduction. Why did the Romans call gates bars and streets gates? Crazies! (Also, the Theater Royal you see here is the one where I saw the pantomime of "Cinderella.")
This is a 26-second clip of the York Minster bells chiming. When I was first investigating York and walking around the city walls, I heard them go off and it was magical.
This video you don't have to watch all the way through—it's of The Shambles, the narrowest street in York. You can actually shake hands with a person in the house opposite yours on the second floor. It looks soooo different in this clip, because obviously it was taken in the summer and I've only seen it in the dead of winter. No pretty greenery right now! (Note: it starts out with crazy tourist people but goes into the street pretty quickly).
Last but not least... the place where my bus stops! The tower on the hill is Clifford's Tower and the huge purple thing on the road is the bus I take most days. At the very end, you can see one of the many Pizza Huts in the city with a white strip across it. (They are in love with Subway and Pizza Hut here... don't ask me why.) The Pizza Huts are actually pretty snazzy, though—weird!
Hope you enjoyed it! This week has been pretty dead so far, but Francie and I are going to Liverpool this weekend to do Beatles tourist-y things, so that should provide some good reading.
Last but not least: You should all run, not walk, to buy yourself a copy of "Angela's Ashes" by Frank McCourt. I thought it would be this long, drawn-out, depressing book that would take forever to get through, but it's incredibley addicting and I have to force myself to stop reading it at night. I just can't put it down! So obviously, I highly recommend it.
This first one is a cute introduction. Why did the Romans call gates bars and streets gates? Crazies! (Also, the Theater Royal you see here is the one where I saw the pantomime of "Cinderella.")
This is a 26-second clip of the York Minster bells chiming. When I was first investigating York and walking around the city walls, I heard them go off and it was magical.
This video you don't have to watch all the way through—it's of The Shambles, the narrowest street in York. You can actually shake hands with a person in the house opposite yours on the second floor. It looks soooo different in this clip, because obviously it was taken in the summer and I've only seen it in the dead of winter. No pretty greenery right now! (Note: it starts out with crazy tourist people but goes into the street pretty quickly).
Last but not least... the place where my bus stops! The tower on the hill is Clifford's Tower and the huge purple thing on the road is the bus I take most days. At the very end, you can see one of the many Pizza Huts in the city with a white strip across it. (They are in love with Subway and Pizza Hut here... don't ask me why.) The Pizza Huts are actually pretty snazzy, though—weird!
Hope you enjoyed it! This week has been pretty dead so far, but Francie and I are going to Liverpool this weekend to do Beatles tourist-y things, so that should provide some good reading.
Last but not least: You should all run, not walk, to buy yourself a copy of "Angela's Ashes" by Frank McCourt. I thought it would be this long, drawn-out, depressing book that would take forever to get through, but it's incredibley addicting and I have to force myself to stop reading it at night. I just can't put it down! So obviously, I highly recommend it.
Monday, February 12, 2007
I finally know what it's like to be the token something
I'm sorry I keep writing such long entries. I'm afraid I'm not keeping your interest until the end. I just have so much to tell—it is all so different and fascinating to me. I try to keep only the interesting things in, but, as you can see, I basically find all of it interesting. Three cheers for culture clash!
On Friday, we had our seminar and my friend from Ohio Sarah and I sat and talked to an English girl and guy. The guy is actually from Sicily, but speaks with a British accent. They were so nice and interested in talking to us, even though they never had before... again, they just had to get used to our presence before saying anything. It's just weird! I was telling them about how Americans are extremely attracted to British accents (they all just love hearing that) and how they should come to America. "I would love that!" laughed the boy, Mario. (I didn't realize what his name was until a few weeks in, because English people pronounce it "MARE-io" and I only realized it was Mario when they said, "It's just like in the video game!) I thought to myself, "Well, you have a British accent and Italian good looks—you'd probably have to come in an armoured car to keep the girls off you."
They also talked about how Geoff (Prof. Wall, our seminar leader—everyone in England calls their professors by their first names, which is nice but hard for me to adapt to) is an exceptionally good professor and they had horror stories about past ones. "But Geoff is wonderful because he gives you so much feedback and keeps the class talking and knows everything about everything!" So I lucked out on my professor. Considering I'm always certain that God makes my life harder than everyone else's, I was happy that this is one area he didn't cheat me on (a most important area).
At the end of our seminar, Geoff/Prof. Wall informed us we didn't have one next week because of midterms week (even though we don't have a midterm). "It's just a break we give the students to recognize how hard they have been working the past four weeks," he said. Sarah and I, of course, found this HILARIOUS, saying, "Yes, I know, five hours of classes a week—how is one expected to toil under this inhumane workload?" (I'm paraphrasing.) Geoff/Prof. Wall then asked us, "Is this very different from American universities?"
We talked to him for twenty minutes about it. A college professor, sitting there talking to us for twenty minutes. No prior engagements, no obligations, just getting to know us. I just can't get over how they do this. There were also three English students from our class who sat there listening too, gasping at how we have to take math and science classes too and laughing about how often our buildings are revamped. I couldn't help but feel flattered that they all just sat there and listened to us talk. Sarah and I were the ones who ended up getting antsy at the end and inching towards the door. I think it will be incredibly hard for me when I get back and everyone is rushing to "be productive" again. Ew, productivity.
That night, I went to "West Side Story" (my favorite musical) that the university kids were putting on. It was worth the 6 pounds on amusement factor ALONE. They were all trying so hard to put on American accents and it was adorable. Most of the main characters were reasonably competent at it, but they would often start saying the first half of a sentence in an American accent and end up sounding English/Scottish. They would also always forget to pronounce their R's, which I really think is one of the key ways to sound American. I couldn't help but giggle a bit into my sleeve when Tony sang, "Maria, I just met a GIHL named Maria..."
My favorite parts of the play were the opening scene of them dancing/fighting (it looked so elegant and fluid and almost made violence look pretty) and "Gee, Officer Krupke!" (they all looked like they were having so much fun doing it). Anita was particularly good, even though she had this annoying habit of constantly putting her hands on her hips. It amused me when they performed "America" that all the Puerto Rican girls beside Anita were whiter than I am. And that's saying something. Also, when they say, "You came with your PANTS open" during the song, it takes on a much raunchier meaning (pants mean underwear here). Everyone laughed uproariously at that part.
The weird thing about plays here: they use actual cigarettes when they smoke onstage, there are no concession stands and they charge for programs. For PROGRAMS. What the crap? It's like four sheets of paper stapled together!
I think the weirdest thing about England is that it is not like going to some third-world country or anything. I have a friend in Nicaragua, one in South Africa and one in Brazil, and obviously everything is totally different there. The hard thing about England is that everything is similar enough to look familiar, but tweaked just enough to throw you off and make you feel as though you are in a parallel universe. When my friend goes to a parade in Brazil, it's this totally new, eye-opening thing that she just sits back and observes because she's never experienced anything like it before. I, on the other hand, will go into a situation thinking I know exactly what it's going to be like... and it doesn't turn out how I imagined it . Milky Way bars here are Three Muskateers bars. Periods are called dots. They charge you for extra ketchup packets. I reach for a program and they ask me for a pound. It's just WEIRD.
When I was walking back from the play, I realized there was still a little bit of snow left in some areas (it melts faster on some surfaces than others—isn't that weird?) and decided that I wanted to throw a snowball. Although I've built one or two snowmen in my time, I've never been in a snowball fight. Because I didn't have anyone to fight with at 11 at night, I decided just throwing a snowball would be enough. So I gathered together the quarter-inch of powder, compacted it into a ball, threw it... and it shattered in midair. What was I doing wrong? I tried it two times more and each time it fell apart as soon as it left my hand. God, I'm such a California kid that I can't even throw a SNOWBALL right.
On Saturday, Genevieve and I returned to infamous Leeds, where we had traveled last week but everything had been shut tight as a coffin. This time, we actually got there at 1 p.m. or so and were able to actually step foot in a store! Gasp! It was funny because we weren't really used to any of the chains and just sort of wandered into any store that looked interesting, ranging from crap cheapo stores to the English equivalent of Neiman Marcus.
We wondered, though, if it were some big shopping holiday or something, because everyone and their mother was out buying things. Normally, this would only bother me a little, but the hard thing about England is this: they don't have a concept of the "space bubble." Despite the fact that they keep to themselves, they will brush past you in a store and think nothing of it. When I first got here and they did that in the supermarket, I jumped back and said, "Oh, sorry!" They kind of looked at me strangely. Now I realize that they just don't have the same idea of personal space as Americans do and don't really care if their butt touches yours while walking by. I still wince and apologize though—it unnerves me. I wonder if I ever will get used to it.
We finally ended our succesful shopping day (I managed to find a hippie shirt and earrings—in Northern England!) at a noodle place. I decided on the "pud thai" (for some reason, that "u" just makes it so much more unappetizing) and when we went up to order, the cashier just stood there, staring and laughing at us. "Where are you from—Canada?" We said no, America. "Oh, where in America?" California. "Ohhhh... Ca-li-for-nye-AY?" he asked, a huge grin plastered across his face. We nodded dubiously, and I tried to remember the last time I had called it that. Probably during our unit on miners in the fourth grade.
"Can you guess where I'm from?" he asked. His accent was really muddled, and he found it sooo funny we couldn't guess it. "Oh you Americans, knowing nothing about anything outside your own country!" (I always bristle at that cliche. It's just so... aggravating.) We finally guessed Australian and he said yes (but to be fair, his accent was kind of a British/Australian mix, so it wasn't all that obvious where he could be from). He then asked us if we knew the capital of Australia. "Because I know the capital of America—it's Washington, and not the state!" When we didn't know Australia's, he laughed again at our incompetence. But I mean, come on—Australia isn't exactly a political powerhouse. If Australia were in the middle of a war with Iraq, you can bet your buttons I would know about Canberra.
Anyway, I just found him noteworthy because I think he was the first person to be charmed by our accent. As much as he was teasing us, he kept talking to us and laughing delightedly at how we would pronounce words, parroting them back to us in a demented John Wayne-type accent (this is how all English people imitate American speech). I remember my dad saying there was only one guy in England who was charmed by the way he and my mom spoke (a random pub owner), so I thought this might be the only time someone would be this taken by our accent and tried to enjoy it.
Later, when Genevieve and I were wandering the streets of Leeds to explore (we ended up finding the adult-store-and-strip-club street—success!), I thought about it and said, "You know how we should have been able to tell that guy wasn't English? Because he flirted with us." Genevieve laughed, but it's true—he was basically being all coy and teasing, which I have yet to see an English boy do. They are more cynical and bawdy, but basically treat every girl the exact same way. There is nothing obvious about English flirting. I think they consider playing hard-to-get a type of flirtation here, which is not good. My friends always compliment me on how normal I act around my crushes and how "I can't even tell at ALL that you like him!" Combine this with a coy English boy and neither one of us will know we're attracted to the other. My goal of kissing a British boy is moving farther and farther away with each new ritual I learn about the mating dance here. :)
When we got back to York on the train, we were waiting for the bus and playing Holey Moley on the ticket stand computer, that game where you try to hit the moles as they come out of their holes (on a touchscreen, of course). Genevieve introduced me to this game and I have slowly become addicted, and that night I got third place on the all-time record holders! I was so excited about this that I couldn't stop giggling for about five minutes (This also might be because I had only slept about five hours the night before... nahhhh.)
On Sunday, I went into the Nouse office to proofread for the night. And when I say "night," I mean its entireity... well into the early morning. Although the newspaper comes out only every three weeks, they are hardcore about it here. They are basically in the office from Sunday morning to late Monday afternoon with no sleep involved. The even more amazing thing about this is that the office is TINY... two rooms that together are about the size of my bedroom at home (or my room at Oxy this year). Imagine stuffing about 20 or so people in there, and it become a madhouse. They don't have enough chairs, so you basically have to curl up on the floor and hope that no one steps on you. I did a crapload of proofreading for the really sweet girl Ellen who does the music/arts/theatre section. I had to take a break to go to "The Glass Menagerie," another play being put on here (another thing I love about big campuses—constant plays to go to!)
I will say this: it was the smallest theater I had ever been in. It seated maybe about thirty or forty people, tops. Everyone was scrunched in on these miniscule benches and you could actually see the spit escaping from the actors' mouths. I was worried about not bringing my glasses, but I was seated in the front row, literally about a foot from the edge of the stage. It felt so personal.
And they did an AMAZING job with it. It was better than "West Side Story," and not just because they pretty much nailed Southern accents. The actors were just so natural and blended into their parts so well that you actually forgot they were English. I seriously think they could be professional actors—it was just incredible. Throughout the whole play, I could hear this older man laughing even when other people weren't, and someone from newspaper told me later that he was the dad of the main character and also an MP (Member of Parliament)!
I returned to the newspaper expecting maybe to stay another hour or so and ended up staying until 5 in the morning. I really didn't care, though—I was actually excited to do it. We all went out for drinks at about 10, which I found SO funny. I mean, we were working on the newspaper! We should be able to concentrate and get it done as quickly as possible! But again, I realized that was an American way of thinking. They like to relax and take it as it comes and eventually, it will be done. I kept shaking my head and smiling while we were nursing our pints, thinking about what it would have been like if this had been the case for the Octagon or the Oxy Weekly. People would think you were crazy.
When we got back, I proofread and talked to people in between pages being printed out. Some of them were fascinated with my Americaness and kept asking me questions about it, especially this girl named Jenny, another copy editor. She was tickled by the fact that I said "period" for "dot" and spelled skeptical with a k. Another really nice boy named Toby just sat on the floor and asked me questions about where I was from, where I had traveled in England so far, etc. I loved talking to him because he has this little baby face and big wide eyes and would react like a little kid whenever I told him something he wasn't expecting. His English accent was so thick that sometimes I could barely make out what he was saying. He asked me, "You're from LA and you came here—why? It's the complete opposite!" I told him that was sort of the point.
Throughout the night, people kept making tea runs (there must have been three or so while I was there). I hate to give into cliche again, but I've never realized how much people in England love tea. Even the boys are into it here (almost more than the girls, it seems). I kept telling them how no one drinks tea in America, how it was considered kind of wimpy and the only people who really got it constantly were girls watching their weight. I told them since most Americans want the most caffeine money can buy them, they just naturally default to coffee (tea would almost seem like a waste of money). I told them I don't think I had ever seen a boy drink tea before. "Oh, but a cuppa tea and 'Neighbours'—it's just lovely," said Toby ("Neighbours" is this Australian soap opera that they are all OBSESSED with).
Sam then said that when he was in San Diego, one boy he knew was convinced that he was gay, even after having a girlfriend for three months. "I could see that," I said, and they all laughed in a shocked way. But the thing about the boys here is that they just aren't worried about looking manly. For instance, Sam's interests and activities on facebook: "allowing life to lap gently at my toes, listening to radio 4, quietly raiding the gin and other similar grandmotherly pursuits, strange noises, jasmine tea, bookshops, the subtle art of metaphor mixology, your well-being and happiness." When I first read this, I basically swooned. I could just not imagine an American boy writing anything comparing themselves to a grandmother. He would get teased MERCILESSLY.
But that is the thing about English guys—they are so secure in their masculinity that they're not worried about drinking tea or watching soap operas. They're so sure of who they are that they won't stoop to the level of trying to impress people, and that's what makes me fall for them so easily. Then again, I am probably just putting them up on a pedestal. But it sure beats: "the art of apathy, shit talking, lampin' and chillin' on campus, belligerance, keepin' it smooth like butta, savin' the flava, chaplaining fraternities, beers 'n' balls, showing up people in beer pong" (the interests of one of my male friends at Oxy).
At about 4 a.m., one of the boys Nicky was having trouble with a story he was writing with another boy. He wanted Sam to look at it, but Sam was busy, so Heidi suggested me. So I sat there with him for about an hour working on it and it was SO much fun. He was so against the word "said"—"It's so boring, we should say 'commented' or 'described.'" Coming from the Fels school of thought, I was adamant he used "said," as that is the right way to do it in journalism. Then I wondered... is that maybe just in American journalism? But I convinced him to bring down the number of "commented"s to a scant few and streamlined their argument a little bit, putting the positive stuff together at the start and the negative stuff together later.
"Such an American," the boys teased. "Let's put all the positive things at the start!"
Being English, they too didn't realize the space bubble and would read over my shoulder with their faces literally inches away from mine or reach their arms around me to type something in. This time, however, I did not mind at all. I was basically doing cartwheels and running with unicorns in my mind as they would lean in to read a part I wanted to change. So maybe this "personal space" thing isn't all it's cracked up to be. Or maybe it should be implemented only with middle-aged mothers grabbing the closest sweater, not 20-year-old boys with hot English accents. Mmmm. I like that idea.
On Friday, we had our seminar and my friend from Ohio Sarah and I sat and talked to an English girl and guy. The guy is actually from Sicily, but speaks with a British accent. They were so nice and interested in talking to us, even though they never had before... again, they just had to get used to our presence before saying anything. It's just weird! I was telling them about how Americans are extremely attracted to British accents (they all just love hearing that) and how they should come to America. "I would love that!" laughed the boy, Mario. (I didn't realize what his name was until a few weeks in, because English people pronounce it "MARE-io" and I only realized it was Mario when they said, "It's just like in the video game!) I thought to myself, "Well, you have a British accent and Italian good looks—you'd probably have to come in an armoured car to keep the girls off you."
They also talked about how Geoff (Prof. Wall, our seminar leader—everyone in England calls their professors by their first names, which is nice but hard for me to adapt to) is an exceptionally good professor and they had horror stories about past ones. "But Geoff is wonderful because he gives you so much feedback and keeps the class talking and knows everything about everything!" So I lucked out on my professor. Considering I'm always certain that God makes my life harder than everyone else's, I was happy that this is one area he didn't cheat me on (a most important area).At the end of our seminar, Geoff/Prof. Wall informed us we didn't have one next week because of midterms week (even though we don't have a midterm). "It's just a break we give the students to recognize how hard they have been working the past four weeks," he said. Sarah and I, of course, found this HILARIOUS, saying, "Yes, I know, five hours of classes a week—how is one expected to toil under this inhumane workload?" (I'm paraphrasing.) Geoff/Prof. Wall then asked us, "Is this very different from American universities?"
We talked to him for twenty minutes about it. A college professor, sitting there talking to us for twenty minutes. No prior engagements, no obligations, just getting to know us. I just can't get over how they do this. There were also three English students from our class who sat there listening too, gasping at how we have to take math and science classes too and laughing about how often our buildings are revamped. I couldn't help but feel flattered that they all just sat there and listened to us talk. Sarah and I were the ones who ended up getting antsy at the end and inching towards the door. I think it will be incredibly hard for me when I get back and everyone is rushing to "be productive" again. Ew, productivity.
That night, I went to "West Side Story" (my favorite musical) that the university kids were putting on. It was worth the 6 pounds on amusement factor ALONE. They were all trying so hard to put on American accents and it was adorable. Most of the main characters were reasonably competent at it, but they would often start saying the first half of a sentence in an American accent and end up sounding English/Scottish. They would also always forget to pronounce their R's, which I really think is one of the key ways to sound American. I couldn't help but giggle a bit into my sleeve when Tony sang, "Maria, I just met a GIHL named Maria..."My favorite parts of the play were the opening scene of them dancing/fighting (it looked so elegant and fluid and almost made violence look pretty) and "Gee, Officer Krupke!" (they all looked like they were having so much fun doing it). Anita was particularly good, even though she had this annoying habit of constantly putting her hands on her hips. It amused me when they performed "America" that all the Puerto Rican girls beside Anita were whiter than I am. And that's saying something. Also, when they say, "You came with your PANTS open" during the song, it takes on a much raunchier meaning (pants mean underwear here). Everyone laughed uproariously at that part.
The weird thing about plays here: they use actual cigarettes when they smoke onstage, there are no concession stands and they charge for programs. For PROGRAMS. What the crap? It's like four sheets of paper stapled together!
I think the weirdest thing about England is that it is not like going to some third-world country or anything. I have a friend in Nicaragua, one in South Africa and one in Brazil, and obviously everything is totally different there. The hard thing about England is that everything is similar enough to look familiar, but tweaked just enough to throw you off and make you feel as though you are in a parallel universe. When my friend goes to a parade in Brazil, it's this totally new, eye-opening thing that she just sits back and observes because she's never experienced anything like it before. I, on the other hand, will go into a situation thinking I know exactly what it's going to be like... and it doesn't turn out how I imagined it . Milky Way bars here are Three Muskateers bars. Periods are called dots. They charge you for extra ketchup packets. I reach for a program and they ask me for a pound. It's just WEIRD.When I was walking back from the play, I realized there was still a little bit of snow left in some areas (it melts faster on some surfaces than others—isn't that weird?) and decided that I wanted to throw a snowball. Although I've built one or two snowmen in my time, I've never been in a snowball fight. Because I didn't have anyone to fight with at 11 at night, I decided just throwing a snowball would be enough. So I gathered together the quarter-inch of powder, compacted it into a ball, threw it... and it shattered in midair. What was I doing wrong? I tried it two times more and each time it fell apart as soon as it left my hand. God, I'm such a California kid that I can't even throw a SNOWBALL right.
On Saturday, Genevieve and I returned to infamous Leeds, where we had traveled last week but everything had been shut tight as a coffin. This time, we actually got there at 1 p.m. or so and were able to actually step foot in a store! Gasp! It was funny because we weren't really used to any of the chains and just sort of wandered into any store that looked interesting, ranging from crap cheapo stores to the English equivalent of Neiman Marcus.
We wondered, though, if it were some big shopping holiday or something, because everyone and their mother was out buying things. Normally, this would only bother me a little, but the hard thing about England is this: they don't have a concept of the "space bubble." Despite the fact that they keep to themselves, they will brush past you in a store and think nothing of it. When I first got here and they did that in the supermarket, I jumped back and said, "Oh, sorry!" They kind of looked at me strangely. Now I realize that they just don't have the same idea of personal space as Americans do and don't really care if their butt touches yours while walking by. I still wince and apologize though—it unnerves me. I wonder if I ever will get used to it.We finally ended our succesful shopping day (I managed to find a hippie shirt and earrings—in Northern England!) at a noodle place. I decided on the "pud thai" (for some reason, that "u" just makes it so much more unappetizing) and when we went up to order, the cashier just stood there, staring and laughing at us. "Where are you from—Canada?" We said no, America. "Oh, where in America?" California. "Ohhhh... Ca-li-for-nye-AY?" he asked, a huge grin plastered across his face. We nodded dubiously, and I tried to remember the last time I had called it that. Probably during our unit on miners in the fourth grade.
"Can you guess where I'm from?" he asked. His accent was really muddled, and he found it sooo funny we couldn't guess it. "Oh you Americans, knowing nothing about anything outside your own country!" (I always bristle at that cliche. It's just so... aggravating.) We finally guessed Australian and he said yes (but to be fair, his accent was kind of a British/Australian mix, so it wasn't all that obvious where he could be from). He then asked us if we knew the capital of Australia. "Because I know the capital of America—it's Washington, and not the state!" When we didn't know Australia's, he laughed again at our incompetence. But I mean, come on—Australia isn't exactly a political powerhouse. If Australia were in the middle of a war with Iraq, you can bet your buttons I would know about Canberra.
Anyway, I just found him noteworthy because I think he was the first person to be charmed by our accent. As much as he was teasing us, he kept talking to us and laughing delightedly at how we would pronounce words, parroting them back to us in a demented John Wayne-type accent (this is how all English people imitate American speech). I remember my dad saying there was only one guy in England who was charmed by the way he and my mom spoke (a random pub owner), so I thought this might be the only time someone would be this taken by our accent and tried to enjoy it.Later, when Genevieve and I were wandering the streets of Leeds to explore (we ended up finding the adult-store-and-strip-club street—success!), I thought about it and said, "You know how we should have been able to tell that guy wasn't English? Because he flirted with us." Genevieve laughed, but it's true—he was basically being all coy and teasing, which I have yet to see an English boy do. They are more cynical and bawdy, but basically treat every girl the exact same way. There is nothing obvious about English flirting. I think they consider playing hard-to-get a type of flirtation here, which is not good. My friends always compliment me on how normal I act around my crushes and how "I can't even tell at ALL that you like him!" Combine this with a coy English boy and neither one of us will know we're attracted to the other. My goal of kissing a British boy is moving farther and farther away with each new ritual I learn about the mating dance here. :)
When we got back to York on the train, we were waiting for the bus and playing Holey Moley on the ticket stand computer, that game where you try to hit the moles as they come out of their holes (on a touchscreen, of course). Genevieve introduced me to this game and I have slowly become addicted, and that night I got third place on the all-time record holders! I was so excited about this that I couldn't stop giggling for about five minutes (This also might be because I had only slept about five hours the night before... nahhhh.)On Sunday, I went into the Nouse office to proofread for the night. And when I say "night," I mean its entireity... well into the early morning. Although the newspaper comes out only every three weeks, they are hardcore about it here. They are basically in the office from Sunday morning to late Monday afternoon with no sleep involved. The even more amazing thing about this is that the office is TINY... two rooms that together are about the size of my bedroom at home (or my room at Oxy this year). Imagine stuffing about 20 or so people in there, and it become a madhouse. They don't have enough chairs, so you basically have to curl up on the floor and hope that no one steps on you. I did a crapload of proofreading for the really sweet girl Ellen who does the music/arts/theatre section. I had to take a break to go to "The Glass Menagerie," another play being put on here (another thing I love about big campuses—constant plays to go to!)
I will say this: it was the smallest theater I had ever been in. It seated maybe about thirty or forty people, tops. Everyone was scrunched in on these miniscule benches and you could actually see the spit escaping from the actors' mouths. I was worried about not bringing my glasses, but I was seated in the front row, literally about a foot from the edge of the stage. It felt so personal.
And they did an AMAZING job with it. It was better than "West Side Story," and not just because they pretty much nailed Southern accents. The actors were just so natural and blended into their parts so well that you actually forgot they were English. I seriously think they could be professional actors—it was just incredible. Throughout the whole play, I could hear this older man laughing even when other people weren't, and someone from newspaper told me later that he was the dad of the main character and also an MP (Member of Parliament)!I returned to the newspaper expecting maybe to stay another hour or so and ended up staying until 5 in the morning. I really didn't care, though—I was actually excited to do it. We all went out for drinks at about 10, which I found SO funny. I mean, we were working on the newspaper! We should be able to concentrate and get it done as quickly as possible! But again, I realized that was an American way of thinking. They like to relax and take it as it comes and eventually, it will be done. I kept shaking my head and smiling while we were nursing our pints, thinking about what it would have been like if this had been the case for the Octagon or the Oxy Weekly. People would think you were crazy.
When we got back, I proofread and talked to people in between pages being printed out. Some of them were fascinated with my Americaness and kept asking me questions about it, especially this girl named Jenny, another copy editor. She was tickled by the fact that I said "period" for "dot" and spelled skeptical with a k. Another really nice boy named Toby just sat on the floor and asked me questions about where I was from, where I had traveled in England so far, etc. I loved talking to him because he has this little baby face and big wide eyes and would react like a little kid whenever I told him something he wasn't expecting. His English accent was so thick that sometimes I could barely make out what he was saying. He asked me, "You're from LA and you came here—why? It's the complete opposite!" I told him that was sort of the point.
Throughout the night, people kept making tea runs (there must have been three or so while I was there). I hate to give into cliche again, but I've never realized how much people in England love tea. Even the boys are into it here (almost more than the girls, it seems). I kept telling them how no one drinks tea in America, how it was considered kind of wimpy and the only people who really got it constantly were girls watching their weight. I told them since most Americans want the most caffeine money can buy them, they just naturally default to coffee (tea would almost seem like a waste of money). I told them I don't think I had ever seen a boy drink tea before. "Oh, but a cuppa tea and 'Neighbours'—it's just lovely," said Toby ("Neighbours" is this Australian soap opera that they are all OBSESSED with).Sam then said that when he was in San Diego, one boy he knew was convinced that he was gay, even after having a girlfriend for three months. "I could see that," I said, and they all laughed in a shocked way. But the thing about the boys here is that they just aren't worried about looking manly. For instance, Sam's interests and activities on facebook: "allowing life to lap gently at my toes, listening to radio 4, quietly raiding the gin and other similar grandmotherly pursuits, strange noises, jasmine tea, bookshops, the subtle art of metaphor mixology, your well-being and happiness." When I first read this, I basically swooned. I could just not imagine an American boy writing anything comparing themselves to a grandmother. He would get teased MERCILESSLY.
But that is the thing about English guys—they are so secure in their masculinity that they're not worried about drinking tea or watching soap operas. They're so sure of who they are that they won't stoop to the level of trying to impress people, and that's what makes me fall for them so easily. Then again, I am probably just putting them up on a pedestal. But it sure beats: "the art of apathy, shit talking, lampin' and chillin' on campus, belligerance, keepin' it smooth like butta, savin' the flava, chaplaining fraternities, beers 'n' balls, showing up people in beer pong" (the interests of one of my male friends at Oxy).
At about 4 a.m., one of the boys Nicky was having trouble with a story he was writing with another boy. He wanted Sam to look at it, but Sam was busy, so Heidi suggested me. So I sat there with him for about an hour working on it and it was SO much fun. He was so against the word "said"—"It's so boring, we should say 'commented' or 'described.'" Coming from the Fels school of thought, I was adamant he used "said," as that is the right way to do it in journalism. Then I wondered... is that maybe just in American journalism? But I convinced him to bring down the number of "commented"s to a scant few and streamlined their argument a little bit, putting the positive stuff together at the start and the negative stuff together later.
"Such an American," the boys teased. "Let's put all the positive things at the start!"
Being English, they too didn't realize the space bubble and would read over my shoulder with their faces literally inches away from mine or reach their arms around me to type something in. This time, however, I did not mind at all. I was basically doing cartwheels and running with unicorns in my mind as they would lean in to read a part I wanted to change. So maybe this "personal space" thing isn't all it's cracked up to be. Or maybe it should be implemented only with middle-aged mothers grabbing the closest sweater, not 20-year-old boys with hot English accents. Mmmm. I like that idea.
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