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.