"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.

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.

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.

Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories

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At least I know I'm free!

I've realized something while being here. If you want something done, you've got to do it yourself.

Hence, whenever I feel like actually getting off my butt and it is too late to ask someone else, I just think, "Huh. Wellllll, I really want to do this, so I'm doing it on my own."

I've always had an irrational fear of doing things alone. Actually, not always. Until I was 18, I had Francie to do things with. Then college came and I almost buckled from the weight of it. I had to walk by myself. Thoughts thrummed through my head that I had no one to tell. When I wanted to go somewhere, I would sometimes find friends to go with me. If, however, they didn't always have exactly the same taste as me, I was left by myself. (Who, for example, would want to go to a pancake place featured briefly during a scene in the movie "Rain Man?")

Because I'd never had to do anything by myself, I would normally try to rationalize it so that I wouldn't go. Oh, it's too far. It'd be boring without someone else. It's too cold. But really, I am just terrified of going out in public by myself. I feel so weird and out of place. I feel like my own little one-person society, and I really don't like that.

This year at Oxy, I had started to venture out on my own more. In the mood to go shopping? All of my friends whining about how they are so broke? Fine, I'll just go by myself. Caroline wants me to visit her at Scripps? I'll just drive the hour-and-a-half it takes to get there (in traffic) alone and amuse myself. No one wants to go to a Paul Simon concert with me? Fuck it. All I need is me, some "Graceland" on my iPod and mapquest directions on how to get there. I remember sitting in the car right after the concert ended, so happy that I was almost in tears. It was hard for me to believe I had done this all on my lonesome (especially without getting lost).

It is even more like this in York. I see Genevieve a lot in the afternoons/evenings, but during the mornings and nights we are usually doing our own thing. Considering there is only one day a week I have more than an hour of class (Friday), I am usually left by myself, rocking back and forth on my feet with my hands in my pockets, saying, "Hokay... what now?"

I decided to take myself to the movie "Notes on a Scandal"—appropriately British because it starred Judi Dench, Cate Blanchett and some hot British teenage boy in an English school uniform. Mmmm. The theater is wedged behind this old church, creepy even at 2 in the afternoon. I still find it strange that you can have such modern buildings next to places that were built before Columbus stepped foot on American soil.

Whitney had told me that movies in Europe were expensive, but I found them to be comparable to American ones. Plus, what you get for your money is quite above and beyond any movie theater I have ever seen. First, there is a little cafe with lunch entrees, coffee and wine. Then, when you feel ready to go to... oh, I don't know, an actual MOVIE, you climb up a steep flight of stairs and... oh god. On one side of you, there are huge picture windows with the sunlight streaming in. The theater is right next to the river, so you can look down and see the riverfront restaurants and pubs and boats going by. On the other side of you, there are beautiful acrylic paintings that are showcased with the artists' names and an appropriate number of British people oohing and aahing over them. Then you reach your actual theater and realize... there is a sitting room. A SITTING ROOM IN FRONT OF THE THEATER ENTRANCE. Because, you know, just having that cafe downstairs isn't enough. No, we must have a little place with leather sofas and a coffee table in case we don't feel like a cafe or sitting in the theater seats. I scoff at your "make due with only a cafe." Might as well go back to the Middle Ages.

I was just gobsmacked the whole time by it. I'm so used to the crappy American theaters, with their dark gray carpet and gummy floors and depressing hallways that barely have enough light to see where you're going. They always smell of cigarette smoke, too, even though no one has smoked there in decades. But this... this was an EXPERIENCE. It reminded me of someone talking about the '50s, when going out to the movies was an event to look forward to for weeks beforehand.

After the movie ended, I wandered around York for a while, feeling quite proud of my pale skin after seeing Cate Blanchett pull it off so flawlessly. I ended up in H&M (the black hole of female university students) and indulged in a pair of jeans and a grey sweater.

Strangely, I had tried on a pair of jeans a few weeks earlier that I could just barely button. I decided they wouldn't be worth the discomfort and didn't buy them. This time, though, I tried on the same size and they were perfect... almost a little big. I rationalized this by the idea that "someone fatter than me must have tried them on and stretched them out" (my old standby), but Jesus... have I lost weight? Me? The girl who lives on Cornish pasties, Coco Krispies and curry? I remember reading an article by an Oxy grad called the "Whipped Cream Diet" where the writer discovered she was eating fattier things but losing tons of weight. In the end, she found out she was hypoglycemic. The thought kept popping into my head as the cashier rung up my purchases.

On Friday, I went to the pantomime of "Cinderella." I describe pantomimes as "grown-up fairy tales": the same old plotlines, but a ton of cross-dressing, slapstick humor and jokes tying in sexual innuendo or British pop culture. The latter left me lost a lot of the time:

Actor: "Oh, well at least you won't be ugly like Emdnssn Indsnjdsdufh."
(HUGE ERUPTION of laughter from British crowd)
(Me just sitting there, wondering what I missed)

One of the main characters was so gorgeous that I couldn't take my eyes from him whenever he was onstage. And he was a terrific dancer. AND he had a British accent, of course. At one point in the play he was dancing to a song with numerous pelvic thrusts and I was surmising how I would get backstage at the end of the show and convince him that we were soulmates. It was cute though, because at the end of the play he became a superhero called "Yorkshire Man." All the little kids loved that. I loved it because he changed into head-to-toe spandex. Ye gads.

I just happend to be sitting next to a group of American students studying abroad from another university. They insisted on taking pictures of the theater after one of the ushers told them not to. "Oh, just do it when she's not looking," said one. "Katie! I want a picture with youuuu!" I felt like grabbing them by the tonsils and saying, "You're the reason we Americans get such a bad rap. Stop it. Seriously.

...Oh, and by the way, do you know where I can buy Skippy peanut butter? Because this brown goo they sell here isn't exactly cutting it."

On Saturday, I went with Genevieve by train to Leeds, a nearby larger city. I had read in my Lonely Planet guide about how it had wonderful shopping and one mall there was open until 10:30 at night. "Yes!" I cried, pumping my fist in the air with the "Chariots of Fire" theme song playing in my head. "Some place that stays open past 5:30!" I slept really late the day we left, but I rationalized it by assuring myself that these stores would be open later, so it wouldn't matter.

Skip to... Genevieve and me, standing on a deserted avenue with dozens of stores and shops and not one of them open. And it was 6! Freakin' 6! So apparently "mall opened until 10:30 p.m." basically means "doors to the mall open until then, but we're closing down our stores before 6, so I don't really know why we even leave the mall open that late because it's not like someone will actually want to come in, but hey, we're British so we don't really need an excuse for doing things exactly how we want them and will scoff at someone who asks 'why' and call them 'American' in the same voice we would use to say 'bloody diarrhea.'"

We found a few stores open and almost cried when we realized we could actually spend a good 5-10 minutes there before being pushed out, but it was almost like torture. Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. We cheered ourselves up at Starbucks (America, fuck yeah) and then went on to a tiny Lebanese cafe where all was made right with chicken schwarma. But even Lebanese food here doesn't have quite the spice of California Lebanese food. It made me feel as if garlic were the most exotic flavor in the world.

After dinner, we wandered around for like an hour more, which was WAY more fun than it should have been. At the start, we thought we would just make mental notes of the stores we wanted to go back to sometime this week, but at the end it was more "let's gawk at the girls wearing basically a potholder for a skirt and then laugh at their insanity once they pass, thinking they are oh so hot stuff." I've already admitted that English girls are stylish and beautiful, but it's starting to get kind of annoying. It's one thing to be beautiful, it's another to be beautiful and be so goddamn fucking sure of it that you're strutting down the street in next to nothing and looking as if you invented the idea of the male erection. Let's just say I basically wanted to Zidane a few of the particularly smug-looking ones.

I've realized that I've become somewhat bitter about some parts of English life. But, when all the English kids put down you and everything about where you live... what's a girl to do? I'm not exactly one of those redneck "GOD BLESS AMERICA IF YOU'RE READING THIS THANK A TEACHER IF YOU'RE READING THIS IN ENGLISH THANK A SOLDIER" posers who paint an American flag on their Chevy and spit on hippies. But when someone is saying they can't believe you took food home in a doggie bag, oh my god, that is such a breach of ettiquette, you crass Americans and your ways, eye roll, eye roll, EYE ROLL, and you're like, "Um... I paid for my food and should get all of it. And otherwise it would go to waste and there are starving kids in India. Now who's the crass one, biatch?"... you get a little defensive.

I'm always the first one to join in on Bush bashing. And yes, we can be somewhat greedy and selfish. But when they think it's OK just to go on a bashing spree when it would be rude to do that to other countries, it just gets under your skin. YES, I drive myself everywhere in California instead of walking. YES, I am about twice the size of most of the girls here. YES, I eat carrots raw. YES, I'm used to drinking cheap beer and it will take me more than a few seconds to figure out what I want at pubs. Just leave me alone.

Although sometimes I can still surprise people with the good aspects of American culture. Today, I was making dinner and one of the girls walked in on my floor who I had seen maybe thrice since I got here. (She said to me, "I meant to ask you... are you studying abroad from America?" as if this were a perfectly natural thing to say to me a month after I move in.)

She ended up spilling some of the pasta she was trying to put away and there were no paper towels (another thing that they just don't see the need to have, even though your hands drip water all over the place and you can never wipe anything up). So I said, "Oh, it's OK, I'll help you!" and started picking it up off the floor with my hands.

She reacted to this like I was giving out free Rolexes and puppies. "Oh, you don't have to do that, you really don't! Oh, that's so nice of you!" She then got toilet paper (or "loo roll") and wiped it up with me while I kept asking her questions about herself (another thing that surprised her). She left still kind of shocked but very grateful, saying, "Oh well, I hope I see you later!"

It was my second fist-pumping moment of the week (this time with "Proud To Be An American" playing in my head). Yeah, you hate our government and everything we stand for. Yeah, you think our cars are too big and wish we were't so hung up on ourselves. But we are nice and friendly and that freakin' rocks. Even you realize how wonderful it is for someone to be helpful and chatty, even if it means getting pasta sauce all over your hands and not looking "dignified." Some of us just value kindness above "the proper thing to do," and that group of people is America. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, you Mr. Darcy wannabes.

Is now the right time to insert an all-caps "NEVER FORGET 9-11-01"? You'll have to bear with me—I'm new to this.

The best thing about England?

British Mac ads!!!!!!!

(For the computer-illiterate adults, just click on the "play" button and it will load and then begin playing.)



OK, so maybe it ties with Cadbury hot chocolate and Smart Cars. But I do love how they say "pie chaht."