The Circle Game

Here's a post that I started last week and am finishing in the airport. The beginning of my attempt to find closure.
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I took my last final on Wednesday, had my last day of work on Thursday. I am so very excited to come home, but leaving Parliament for the last time was a little heartbreaking. Yesterday, I came in to find a Starbucks gingerbread latte (from Zoe)  and a small stack of Christmas cards from my co-workers on my desk. In return, I brought in the chocolate chip oatmeal cookies I had baked the night before as my final goodbye present ("You're a real American!" said the MP next door upon tasting one). And I realized: I'm going to miss this.

What else will I miss about London? The walk to school (even on the days that it seemed interminably long), the sights and sounds of a city waking up in the morning. Trafalgar Square filled with tourists who shyly ask you to take their picture in broken English. Exmouth Market, whose competing food stalls waft exotic, mouthwatering scents over the whole block. Seven Dials, with its expensive and delightful shops, including vintage stores that sell American letter jackets as rare anomalies. Mostly, though, I think I'll miss the community we formed in London. 150 students living in two adjacent buildings, make-believing we are real people with little households to come home to at night. In a sense, it wasn't make-believe at all, because we did create a place that felt like a home. One of my very favorite parts of the day was coming back to the flats around 6:00 pm and climbing the six flights of stairs as the smell of cooking and strains of conversation escaped from the doors around me.

On the one hand, we didn't live fully as Londoners because we always had our own little safety net of familiarity to fall back into. On the other hand, though, we experienced it all and were able to recuperate and empathize when small parts of Europe bothered us. We commiserated about the high prices, the great effort involved in getting from one place to another, and the polite but sometimes distant people. We marveled at the architectural splendors, the eccentricities of the culture, and the independence that came with living in a city sans parietals.

What will it be like when we go back to the US? Marvelous and comfortable. Surprising. Disconcerting. But right now, it sounds completely wonderful. I'm coming back to London someday, and when I do I can't wait to rediscover the places I went and the shortcuts I took, to tell stories of memories that I have of the park to the right or the statue up ahead. Before I can return, though, I must leave, which is to say I must return to a different place: home. Leaving is returning.


"You say goodbye and I say hello / I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello..." 


And on that note, bye for now.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Aaaand here we are. Back at the flats, which I thought I would never see again, trying to get out of Britain by any means possible. Some have taken a train to the coast, hopped on a ferry to Ireland, and boarded a plane in Dublin bound for any city in the US-- things always look more hopeful from the same continent. Each day, a few more people make it out, and others disappear to the airport for hours only to return, wilted and dejected, after yet another flight is cancelled for no apparent reason. This is a screw-up of epic proportions. I'm thankful we have accommodations, which is more than the poor people camping out in tents at Heathrow can say. The University staff in London has been great, doing all they can to make sure we have beds, towels, and our sanity. 

You might think being "stranded" in London is not a punishment at all. And there are definitely worse places to be stuck. But even with a city to explore, we said our goodbyes and had our final hurrah last week as we mentally prepared to return to the States. Most of us are staying close to our temporary homes, looking at flight timetables and calling home. I'm finally venturing out today on a mission to find a Christmas sweater. Then I'll probably take a nap and make sure everything is packed before I leave at 3 AM to make a 7:00 flight to Frankfurt, Germany, where I will get a connection to Detroit. Ironic how I have to go east in order to go west. It's kind of like a game of chess, trying to decide which risks to take and when to just cut your losses. I'm hoping, praying, trying to believe that I will make it out. I know this all sounds dramatic, but the so-called "Big Freeze" (a tiny chill by American standards) is vying to make the history books.

On the bright side, it's cozy inside, I'm surrounded by friends, and there are endless downloaded movies to be watched. But I'd rather be watching them at home. And I will be. After all, Buetow Rule #1 is "never give up" (or "be happy" or "respect your parents," depending on Dad's mood when he recites them). I will keep on truckin' and I WILL get home tomorrow. I'm almost afraid to post this because it might be bad luck, but then, if I don't fully believe in success, how will it ever happen?

America, here I come. 

I would walk 1,000 miles (I really would, I might get there sooner)

I was working on my farewell post to London. But it looks like I won't be saying farewell yet, as Heathrow cancelled all its flights this weekend and I am currently without a ticket home. This is so frustrating, I have been stuck in a hotel next to the airport for two days and I just want to be home. All 130 of us are in the same situation, slowly getting flights rebooked for later in the week. For now, we're all pretty upset. One of the biggest airports in the world can't handle three inches of snow. My Midwester self scoffs at the very thought.

In the meantime, to combat boredom, frustration, and the maddeningly repetitive voice on the United Airlines hold line, I will probably be posting a lot. Humour me with comments and distractions, please.

I hope to see you all soon.

Love,

Katie

In Dublin's fair city, the girls are so pretty

I knew I was going to like Dublin when I walked into the hostel and found an old converted mansion with Yeats quotes painted on the walls. These were by far the nicest accommodations of any of my journeys, with crystal chandeliers, down comforters in the spacious yet cozy ten-person room, and the full complimentary Irish breakfast in the morning. After a full day of class, traveling (there's always still a very long way to go after you land at the airport) and Guinness with dinner, I lay in my warm bed listening to the rain patter softly onto the roof and the gentle breathing from the sleepers around me, and I felt more at home than I had in a long time. 

That's the thing that struck me most about Ireland: the sense that I really fit in. Italy was beautiful, Germany was lively, France was sophisticated, but no matter how much I enjoyed these places I still felt like an outsider. In Ireland, though, I could relax completely and not worry about being judged for asking the wrong question or taking the bus in the opposite direction. In Ireland, people are practical and welcoming and so very kind. The waitress at the pub will make sure you get dinner when you're starving after a 4-hour journey. The bus driver at the Cliffs of Moher, seeing you at the cafe on his break, will make sure you know how you're leaving because his bus is the last to leave for several hours. Common-sense kindness is more touching than expensive gifts or dramatic praise.

With the themes of comfort and hospitality illuminating the whole trip, each adventure became even more special. The walking tour of Dublin took us to Trinity College, with the golden Book of Kells; Dublin Castle, where the statue of justice is not blind but accusatory, a remnant from the English imperialism of the past; and the Temple Bar, filed with trendy college pubs and a rising art scene. Dublin is a very walkable city, a welcome relief after the overwhelming expanses of London. And even though it was cold and rainy, some new socks and a bowl of soup warmed me right up.

I could easily have spent more time in Dublin, but the next evening we took a four-hour bus ride to Galway, our launching point for the CLiffs of Moher the next day. I admit, this was probably not the wisest of itineraries, as the tiny taste of Galway only left me wanting more than I could possibly fit. The birthplace of the claddagh is a picturesque seaside village, where seagulls screech and moss covers the grey stone walls. We managed to fit in mass in Gaelic before making a mad dash to the bus with our bags to travel further west to the Cliffs of Moher.

This day trip was one of my favorites of the semester. The cliffs, in the running for the 7 natural wonders of the world, are where the world just ends. The lush green grass grows right up to the very edge, until the stone drops in a clear line to the sea 700 feet below. Despite the signs advising otherwise, the brave visitor can hop the fence and walk or crawl to this fantastical edge, the boundary between land and sky and sea. (Indeed, several people each year are swept to their death by an unexpected gust of wind. Save one lone cowboy-hatted figure, though, no one that I saw dared to dangle their feet off the edge, instead electing to keep a safe distance from the end of all things.)

I can't do the scene justice, but I will try. Imagine a rolling green countryside with low stone walls to divide the pastures. Then, look at the ocean, simultaneously azure and stormy grey, frothy where the waves pound the stone, calm further out where a few ferries slowly cross the horizon. Tilt your head up to the sky, so blue to the east and ominous to the west. In the distance, you can see the rain falling over the water-- probably miles away, but distances lose their meaning from such a height. The tower of an old castle reaches to the clouds drifting across the calmer half of the heavens, which let rays of sunlight miraculously pierce the water in small bursts of glory. There is so much to see, and yet it all fits together seamlessly. It's a floor-to-ceiling painting that belongs on the wall of the Met, but unimaginably more beautiful. 

After absorbing all the surrounding beauty (an impossible task, given the sheer amount of it), we embarked upon another bus ride to Ennis, where we ate dinner at a lovely inn and braced ourselves for a very long journey home. No matter how many interminable late-night and early-morning trips we book, always vowing we'll never do it again, we always seem to end up traveling at the ungodly hours of darkness. Another bus, a plane, a bus, a long walk... and voila, home by 2 AM. Did all of that really happen in 48 hours? Somehow, it did.

I know some people scoff at the way we operate, manically scavenging for major sites, not taking adequate time to admire one before moving onto the next. But that's the nature of travel when you are blessed with so many incredible possibilities. I don't regret any of it. I would love to return to Ireland some day and listen to the music and talk to the people, to walk the village streets before 10 in the morning and read a book on a park bench. Someday I will. For now, I'll develop my pictures on my disposable cameras (the result of the false belief that I had lost the power chord for my digital; it's kind of exciting not knowing if the final products will look like crap or not) and I'll hum the folk tunes in my head. And I'll remember that Ireland will welcome me back. 

A theft, a hike, and a sort-of homecoming

The last leg of fall break was Cinqe Terre, the Italian Riveiera. This series of 5 picturesque villages, Riomaggiore, Manarola, Vernazza, Monterosso, and... (the fifth one that starts with a C?) cling on the edges of cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. The narrow, many-storied houses, in pastel rainbow colors, huddle next to each other like childhood friends peeking into a Christmas gift box while mom isn't looking. The Via dell'Amore, a rocky footpath spanning roughly 5 miles of rugged hillside, connects tvillages-- it's a tough hike, but well worth the effort for the amazing views and the pesto and gelato breaks along the way. The story goes that the "Path of Love" gained its name from the many courtships that arose when the trail connected the nearby but isolated villages in the years before WWII. Now, couples write their initials on locks and attach them in a chain along the railing overlooking the sea, creating an image of inter-connected love that makes the romantic swoon and the cynic gag. PErsonally, I thought it was a little overdone, but very sweet. And you can't beat the views when the early afternoon sun beats down on the rainbow houses, illuminates the azure sea, traces the orderly vineyard rows on the hillside, and embraces your bare arms, making you happy to be alive.

But wait... there's more! Despite my idyllic descriptions, Italy is not a place limited to love, beauty and ice cream. There's a dark side... [cue the dramatic music]. Remember that Venice-infused dae on the train to Cinqe Terre? Well, I was jolted out of it by an innocent-looking 12 year old girl, who distracted me with a strange language while her friend reached behind my seat and plucked my wallet from my purse. I realized what had happened as they bolted off the train and thought about pursuing them, but it was dark out, I didn't know where I was, and they disappeared into the night. Cash, credit cards,  library card, family photo, all gone. Luckily, my passport was in another part of my bag, so it wasn't a compelte disaster. It was an unfortunate incident, to be sure, especially as my parents were going to meet me in London in a few days, and as their credit card was connected to mine, they had to cancel their cards as well. Not the best way to greet the people who gave you... life. Hmmm. Oh dear.

I maintain that I was being very careful and that this could have happened to anyone. I understand my mother's conern that I ws on the train alone, which I concede was stupid. But I've made my ammends, I've learned my lesson, and all I can do is hope that moeny went to people who truly needed it. Needless to say, perspective only comes with time. Upon arriving in Cinqe Terre and walking up a dark hill to met my friends, I was beyond distraught. So they did what any good friends would do... lended me their international phone to call USAA and administered appropriate amounts of wine. OVer the next few days, I felt a slight cloud hanging over me. Luckily, I had put down the payment for a hostel and the cash with which my friends paid me back as enough to et through the week. I should put in a candid observation about the state of law enforcement in Italy as well. Useless. There are about 2.5 police forces in the country: the polizia (civil police), the carabinieri (military police), and the guys who work at the train station and claim to be police as well. There are no clear distinctions between the three forces, because none of them are ever open when yu need them to be. At 11 am on a Thursday morning, the Riomaggiore polizia  station was ominously dark and empty. The impresive, intimidating, and gated carabinieri headquarters at the top of the hill was open, but the friendly officers didn't really speak English and told me to go to the train police. Why I had to physically go there instead of having them make a telephone call is still beyond  me, as it is a known fact that carabinieri do nothing but stand on corners smoking cigarettes and lookig good in their uniforms. Fact.

So I went to the train station in the next town (the one in Riomaggiore was so small and understaffed that even the ticket machine stopped working after dinner. I found the police in their unglamorous office next to the tracks. The middle aged officer looked at me suspiciously, decided my wallet really had been stolen, and handed me the English-language version of a lost or stolen object report with a fill-in-the-blank date of "19__." Clearly this thing was never to see the light of day again after being put into the computer by a supposedly English-speaking deputy. But closure i everything, and at least it made me feel like I was able to do something about the situation.

The journey ended with a trip to Porto Venere, a rustic, gorgeous, slightly desolate port town just north of Riomaggiore, where we saw Byron's favorite writing haunt and were serenaded by a red-faced trio of Italian singers. A fond farewell to Bella Italia. Then, it was on to the Milan airport, where we slept fitfully overnight on airport seats and caught the first plane to London, bleary-eyed and happy to be home. "Home." No, just home. Or that's what it felt like.

In its entirety, fall break was an adventure that I greatly enjoyed despite a few notable moments of hysteria. I learned to navigate cities even when I can't speak the language, I learned how to bear impossibly early trains and pack efficiently and go with the strange, surprising direction of the wind. I hope that doesn't sound too painfully hippy-ish, but I guess what I'm trying to say is the whole experience made me accept the way things are and make the best of a situation. And while it was a valuable lesson to learn, it was indescribably lovely to return to London, safe and sound, and hug my parents for the first time in several months. Some things beat even Venice.

December December I'll always remember

It's 12:49 AM, I have a paper to edit and some serious sleep to catch up on. But first, I have to capture this moment. It's one of those that I just don't ever want to forget.

It never snows in London. But it snowed yesterday. And today. It's snowing now. Outside, the big fluffy white flakes are falling with purpose, illuminated by the street lamps as they cover the awning of the Betsey Trotwood pub across from my window. The sidewalks are covered in a thin icing of white and, despite the occasional cars and busses meandering down the street, it is wonderfully calm.

Inside my (relatively) clean flat, I'm sitting long-ways on a comfy red couch. Only a few lights are on, including the string of Christmas lights that we draped across the windows, ensuring maximum visibility from the street. The ornaments on the small fake tree in the corner reflect the colored pinpricks of light; the roses in their wine-bottle vases, the centerpieces from our memorable Thanksgiving feast, remind me of some Italian family's Sunday dinner, filled with laughter and the scent of good food.

I am so very cozy, sitting here and watching the sky lovingly sugar the earth. I watch the same process from my room at home, I look out over my left shoulder in the same exact way. I've seen the seasons change, and I can't believe it. Wasn't it yesterday I walked to school in a skirt and t-shirt? Or was it 4 months ago? A year? It all seems the same. Because right now, it's snowing, it always has been, and that's what I always want it to do.

I want to go home. I want to stay here. I don't know what I want, except to cherish this moment and remember how happy I can be when nothing is happening at all and I just look out on the world.

Venezia, mi amore

You may know that I've been obsessed with Venice ever since I read "The Thief Lord" in the sixth grade. I still remember that book's blue-purple cover, with an image of a shadow flitting over a canal bridge at night. Ever since then, I've been reading books on Venice and plastering my dorm room with pictures of Venice and generally dreaming about going to Venice someday.

After so much anticipation, I secretly expected to be let down; there was no way the city could live up to my unreasonable and romantic expectations. But as we sped through the darkness on an early-morning train from Rome, I couldn't get the butterflies out of my stomach. The nervousness, the anticipation; it felt like I was anxiously waiting to go on a first date with a long-admired someone. I even dressed up for Venice. I wanted to impress her.

We arrived at the train station on a glorious, crisp, sunlit morning, and as soon as we emerged from the doors, we were met with a scene from a painting. In most of my travels, the journey from the station or airport to the city propper is a long and familiar one; no matter how beautiful the city, its outskirts are bland and dilapidated. Not so with Venice. Because it's a series of islands, there is no room for urban sprawl. You get what you see in the brochure. I walked off the train and directly onto an elegant bridge, traversing a glittering canal dotted with vaporetti (water taxis) and motorboats filled with fruits and vegetables. Our hostel was a short walk away, a dark red door nestled into the corner of a building on the Grand Canal. We checked in quickly and, walking outside once more, I was struck again (and again and again, over the next day and a half) with the beauty around me.

Everything glittered. The water, the gilded domes of the churches, the black lacqueured gondolas. The October sun made each color shine at its most vivid. After about 15 minutes of winding our way through quiet back alleys (which turned out to be my favorite activity, as there is always some new corner to explore), we had the vague intention of heading toward the Piazza San Marco, the tourist-filled center of the city. We had only made it a few yards, however, before a gondolier, decked out in traditional striped shirt and straw hat, offered us a gondola ride at a special price, because it was the first trip of the day, we were students, and we were girls (probably the main reason). I hesitated, as I'd read that gondolas were not worth the money, but luckily the other girls convinced me to take the opportunity. What a good idea to listen to them. It was still fairly early, not yet 11 in the morning, so the canals were empty of their midday crush of tourists. Adam, our gondolier ("the only Adam gondolier in all of Venice!") was a native, now a rare thing in the largely seasonal city, and gave us an insider's tour of the waterways. The buildings, it turns out, are build on pine logs stuck into the swampy lagoon soil, and because of some sort of chemistry magic, they last for centuries. This is how the architects, in the middle ages, defied all reason and perched what would become the most powerful naval force in the world on a muddy lowland.

So after a beautiful boat ride, an informational conversation, and a casual marriage proposal from Adam, we lost ourselves once more in the alleys, this time actually determined to find St. Mark's. Surprise, surprise, we got very turned around. Nothing is far in Venice, but the streets are so haphazard, have such long names, and are so prone to dead-ending on a canal, that it is quite easy to lose all sense of direction. After stumbling into a church with a display of old stringed instruments from Vivaldi's time (!), we delicately tread out way across a flooded Piazza toward the byzantine Basilica on the other side. These days, the whole square is submerged in a couple of inches of water at high tide, and the tuxedoed waiters at the extravagant cafes along the edges have to wear rain boots while they set the tables. It's a sight both charming and slightly melancholy, because the grandeur of the city is slowly succumbing to the realities of time and the elements. But never fear, I have faith the city will be there for a long time to come. That's the magic of it... timelessness, more than any place you've ever been.

Anyway. St. Mark's square was probably my least favorite part of the city; very crowded, a little dirty, and extremely gaudy, especially the gold-mosaic interior of the basilica. But that was what I expected. We explored the Doge's Palace (Doge [pronounced "dohdge"]  = Aristocrat, not dog, FYI), which was the seat of the Senate in the middle ages, one of the oldest Republic in the world. The coolest part was the secret tunnel that led to the prison. Yes, sometimes I might be an 8 year-old boy.

For dinner, we found a little non-English-speaking restaurant in Dorsudoro, my favorite part of town. It's across the Grand from St. Mark's, quiet and residential, filled with unassuming canals and beautiful bridges. This is where the Venetians actually live, and this is where I wish I lived. The meal was delicious and filled with seafood and homemade pasta. Why are Italians so good at food? EVERYTHING looks delicious. Mmmmm. By the time we finished, it was about 10:30, and we wanted to go back the the Piazza to see the famous dueling orchestras that play every night at the outdoor cafes. Venice at  night is transformed into something mysterious and heartbreakingly beautiful. I think I've used "beautiful" in every other sentence, but it still retains all of its meaning here. It's very quiet and the full moon reflects on the water and the empty, covered gondolas rock gently on the tide. The hint of melancholy at noon came back to grip me as I entered the nearly-empty square, the remnants of a few orchestras playing slow songs as the waiters cleaned up and the tide rose at their feet.

Venice goes to bed early. The residents go to their homes across the canal, the day tourists leave in exodus, the backpackers, lacking the clubs of bigger cities, retire to their rooms on the outskirts of town. The alleys (calle) and the canals finally get some time to reflect on their day. I wonder if they are content with the way things are now. Centuries ago, they transported powerful merchants and politicians, they witnessed the horrors of the Plague and the revelry of Carnivale and saw the likes of Casa Nova and Canaletto and Vivaldi. Now, it's mainly sightseers who pass over them, snapping photos and buying masks and eating gelatto. There's nothing wrong with this; I am a sightseer, I did all the cliche guidebook activities and loved them, but I have to wonder what the city thinks, if it feels like it has compromised its identity. To me, its essence was powerful as ever, but it was strongest when I was simply wandering, marveling, and dreaming.

Obviously, we got lost on the way home (there is only one complete foot route through Venice, and it is marked by a fairly useless series of yellow arrows that never point the right direction). After brushing off some ubiquitous European men who invited us to a non-existent discotheque, we stumbled through the now completely deserted (but very safe) alleys and collapsed into our beds at half past one. It was one of those nights I wished I didn't have to sleep, I was so full with the world and its surprises, but my body had other ideas and I was unconscious in minutes.

The next morning, we did some shopping at the Rialto market under another perfectly clear sky. I was a little devastated at the thought of leaving until the other girls suggested I take a train a few hours later and meet them in Cinque Terre, the final leg of our trip. (You probably know one of the consequences of this decision. Que sera sera. More on that later.) Obviously I jumped at the opportunity and spent the afternoon exploring La Fenice, the opera house, where I stumbled upon a rehearsal complete with singers and full orchestra. Fascinating, especially listening to the conductor shout out instructions to the musicians in Italian. I gave myself plenty of time to get to the train station, knowing that the winding paths coupled with my abysmal sense of direction were a recipe for destruction, but also wanting to wander aimlessly one last time. And wander I did. What delighted my repeatedly were the staircases to nowhere. Sometimes, you come to the end of an alley only to find a stone archway and a set of stairs descending into the murky water of the canal. In the old days, the idea was that a gondola would pick you up and you would descend the stairs into the boat in your Carnevale mask and full skirts and ride on to the palazzo where the ball was to be held. Knowing Italians, though, I don't think the stairs were ever really meant to be functional, but more to add to the city's mystery and eccentricity. Whatever their purpose, they were wonderful; they invited me to walk down into the water and go for a swim. I didn't. But I wanted to.

I made it to the train just in time and spend the next couple of hours in a happy, Venice-infused daze. I am so grateful that I was able to see what I did; I felt satisfied, but in the way that I would after eating a generously sized brownie: I wanted more. But, like brownies, too much Venice at once is probably unhealthy. Better to save it for another time, to prolong the magic and share it with others. I had just enough to savour, just enough to make me determined to return someday.

And I know I will return someday. Maybe even with you. Let me know if you're in the neighborhood and we can walk over the bridges of Dorsudoro together and gaze down at the turquoise water.

Autumnal

Today was one of those incredible fall days that makes you happy to be alive. This is my very favorite kind of day. Let me describe it to you.

The clouds are huge, dark, and ominous, but never depressing because the golden sunlight, not yet watered down to its winter thinness, shines gloriously between them. Only in the autumn does the sun light the clouds from underneath, gilding them with an almost surreal pink-orange outline that contrasts beautifully with their dark blue interiors.

The leaves on the ground are big enough to cover your face; they remind me of leaves that dinosaurs probably ate. Smoothed into piles in the gutter, they make the most satisfying rustling and crunching noises as you sweep through them (the urge to disturb the landscaper's neat work is irresistible). Their cool dampness smells wonderfully like the earth and reminds you of all those crisp days you spent in your backyard after elementary school.

The air is cold, but not biting. It invigorates you, and it makes you want to run. Which I did. But I had to stop when I got to Parliament, because the image of the ornate Houses topped with cloud palaces and illuminated by a subtle pink-gold glow was stunning. The Thames was an opaque and choppy gray, and passerby donned thick scarves and warm pea coats, with red paper poppy flowers tucked into many buttonholes in honor of Remembrance Day on November 11.

You get to wear your thickest socks and a warm sweater and be deliciously cozy inside while you look out at the splendor that is autumn. And even though it's too early to be listening to Christmas music, you don't mind when your roommates play it on Pandora because it adds to the feeling of absolute, cozy comfort.

In short, you are in love with the world. Because it's not just beautiful to look at, it's beautiful to touch and run through and breathe in. Fall comes every year, and every year you are newly delighted with it, and you remember vividly all the falls that have come before it. The memories that hide in the brain's shadowy basement during the hot summer and freezing winter, cautiously emerging again for those few days when the world is perfect.

I live for days like this.


_______________________________________

It has been brought to my attention that in my last post, when I used the world "devalue" I actually meant the opposite, as devaluing money would actually make things more expensive. To this I say: I am in the College of Arts and Letters and I do not study real things. That's not entirely true. But it kind of is.

I respectfully submit the following.

Dear London,

You are marvelous.

But.

Please fix your plumbing system, devalue your money, keep your grocery stores open later, pay the Tube workers, and, for the love of God, stop trying to make me eat sausage.

Love,

Me.

A Myth Come True

Back to Athens.

Sunday dawned bright and warm, the promise of an 80-degree day under perfectly blue skies. Our hostel, located in an area of Athens called Monastiraki (which might be my new favorite word) was only a street away from the entrance to the Acropolis. And, fortunately for us, the Acropolis workers were striking for higher pay, so there was no one to collect the entrance fee and we got in for free. (Why they started striking now, after 20 months of unpaid work, is beyond me.)

As we ascended the stone path to the City of the Gods, we had to tread carefully; the marble steps were slippery from centuries of feet scuffing, marching, and dragging their way to the top. The view from the hill was incredible. Staying true to its architectural history, almost all of Athens is composed of white buildings, mostly marble; they spread out cleanly and invitingly before us, like a lace cloth on a grand dining room table. Stone, sky, and sea in the distance made a beautiful feast for the eyes, bright and cheerful. It's no wonder the Greek flag is blue and white; the country wears its natural colors proudly.

At the top of the Acropolis is the famous parthenon, a many-columned and perfectly symmetrical temple whose image has become an almost cliche representation of Greece. To be honest, I wasn't expecting to be very impressed by this ruined giant, but once again, Athens exceeded my expectations. The stone of the temple, a perfect creamy white that entranced me; the perfect symmetry of the columns left me awe-struck. I learned later that the reason for the Acropolis' half-destruction was a Venetian bomber in the 1600s. Until that point, the temple had been almost perfectly preserved for almost 2000 years, and still would be today but for a primitive gunpowder explosive. Despite this destruction, the part that remains is beautiful in its detailed construction, as are the other statues on the hill: the Shrine to Nike Athena, with its goddess statue-columns, the epic outdoor Theatre of Dionysus, and the mammoth Temple of Zeus. The mixture of excellent craftmanship, mild Greek weather, and reverence for art has kept these masterpieces amazingly intact.

The next day we took a two-hour bus ride to the coast to see the Temple of Poseidon, another marvel of columns, this time overlooking the glittering Aegean from a sheer cliff. (The temple really wasn't that far from Athens, but the questionable efficiency of the Greek bus system, combined with winding roads up the hills, made for another adventurous, if not comfortable, journey.) According to legend, King Aegeas watched for the return of his son Theseus' ship from this very cliff. He was looking desperately for a ship with white sails, the signal that would indicate his son's victory and safe return. While Theseus was indeed successful in his battle with the Minotaur, in his celebratory state he forgot to put up the white sails on his ship. Aegeas, seeing black sails approaching in the distance, thought all was lost and threw himself off the cliff in despair.

A dramatic story, but given the scenery, anything seemed possible. My bare arms rejoiced in the hot sunlight and the refreshing ocean breeze, summer remnants that I did not expect to see again before next June. We just sat on the cliff and drank in the view. Unfortunately, photographs just cannot do justice to the scene; the stark definition between land and sea, the vivid colors, the scents and sounds are lost in the transmission. Only words can come close to recreating it, and even those fall short. Suffice it to say that it was stunning. Even better was the secluded inlet next to the cliff, where we dove into the water (yes, in underwear) and let the coolness cleanse the dust and sweat away.

Exhausted, hungry, and soaked, we boarded the bus for the trip home, which I semi-dozed through, having those surreal half-dreams where you can't separate the day's real events and the ones your brain tries to make you believe. Ships and waves and salt, sky and dust and legends. A whim adventure with excellent results. I think I'm too anxious to be a free spirit, but on that day I felt like dropping everything and running barefoot over the hills in the most cliche act imaginable. Now, on a rainy and cold Sunday in London, it almost seems like it never happened. But even if Aegeas never jumped into the sea, I did, and it was beautiful.

Please forgive this brief intermission

11:20 on a Friday night. I am sitting on the couch in my flat, watching the headlights of the cars on the street five stories below. I am wearing an orange sweatshirt and blue polka-dotted pajama shorts. I am listening to Joni Mitchell. Next door there is some kind of pre-Halloween dorm party going on, just loud enough for the sounds of laughter and animated conversation to be comforting (to a college student, anyway).

"I've looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose, but still somehow it's life's illusions..."


Sing it, Joni. I guess I'm feeling a little reflective. My parents were here this week and I just said goodbye to them before they leave early tomorrow morning. There's nothing quite so comforting to the weary mind as family. Mom and Dad, I miss you already.

I miss all of you. It's so strange, the semester is already half over, and I'll be home before I know it. I can't decide how I feel about this. Mixed. I love London, but today I just got fed up with the crowded Tube and the terrible coffee and the expensive groceries and cigarette smoke; most of all, with the sense that even the simplest task is a matter of survival, of walking and carrying and getting jostled into oblivion. I get so disoriented sometimes; I can't believe I'm here. But all of you, my friends and family, remind me of who I am and of what I'm doing.

And with that, sentimentality interlude over. Don't worry, I'll try to get back to descriptive adventure narrative, I don't want to scare you off with all this faux-thoughtfulness. I didn't mean to turn this into a personal journal. But that's the thing about new experiences- no matter how hard you try you can't simply describe them objectively. Whether you like it or not, your thoughts will shine through; your mind will shape and be shaped. That's what I'm learning. (But don't worry, the next installment about Greece will not devolve into a sonnet or something... I'm not quite that far gone.)

Until next time, then. Sleep sounds glorious right now. Goodnight!

Athens: A Symposium.

We are about to delve into the world of whirlwind European vacations, full of hostels, overstuffed backpacks, and early morning trains. Deep breath. Here we go.

I arrived in Athens on Friday afternoon with two other girls. The rest of our ridiculously large group of 9 was to arrive later that day, which meant I was largely responsible for navigating from the airport to the hostel. This transit turned out to be the most violent bus ride in recent memory, and the driver would periodically yell angry things back at the passengers for no reason. At least, I think he was angry. I don't speak Greek, but tone of voice speaks for itself.

By the time we reached the center of town an hour later, we were bedraggled, motion sick, and exhausted from a day of traveling. And I have to be honest, Athens did not make the best first impression. Graffiti plagues the city, stray dogs wander the streets, and corner vendors try to hawk knock-off Louis Vuitton at every possible opportunity. We wandered the street our hostel was supped to be on, looking for number 14, until we finally found it tucked next to a side alley. Oy vey. Exposed concrete, dangling wires, dingy lighting, strains of loud Greek conversations floating through the air. Ohhh no, this could be a very long trip. We walked up several flights, Athenians peering curiously out of their open doorways at us, until we decided something must be wrong. Back outside in the late afternoon sun, we discovered the main offices of he hostel were next door to the building we had entered, and immediately my uneasiness eased up. (I recognize the extreme awkwardness of that sentence but I am going to keep it there out of defiance. I did something similar recently on a paper that I had to turn in for a class I don't like very much... went over the word count but basically told the prof to deal with it. Ooooh. Rebel. Born revolutionary right here. Move over, Che.)

ANYway. The hostel HQ was actually really nice... free computers, rooftop bar overlooking the Acropolis, and an exemplary breakfast. It turned out we actually were staying in the rather janky building next door, but the room itself was perfectly nice. Our group of 9 stayed in a 10-person dorm-style room, so we had a space to ourselves. Once everyone arrived and the spartan linoleum floors and metal bunks were coated with a layer of girls' clothing, it felt much cozier.

As I lay down to sleep that first night, I felt oddly comfortable, more so than I ever would have expected in a strange place after a hectic day. The bunk beds and the room full of girls reminded me of Interlochen, and the mattress was soft and lovely. I felt comfy, safe. Even as my brain softly buzzed with exhaustion, I marveled at how, given the right circumstances, one can feel at home anywhere in the world. It's not a location, home, but a mindset. And at that moment, I felt as delightfully sleepy and warm as I used to as a child in my bed in the corner room facing Dobie Road in Okemos, Michigan, on a snowy night, after my mom had tucked me in.

Look how much I've grown, and look how much I've stayed the same.

The prodigal daughter returns

I'm finally home from my fall break adventures, and boy, do I have a lot to tell you. Expect installments on Athens, Rome, Venice, and Cinque Terre soon. (And I promise to actually do them this time, unlike my still-MIA Munich entry... Whoops...)

Mom and Dad are here and it almost feels like coming home again. But not quite. After all this traveling I am thinking of my house and Midwestern autumns and nice wide roads with a little more wistfulness than usual. For now, though, London is my home base and it's good to be back. I'm a little disheveled and considerably poorer (there's a story there) than when I left, but I'm here and I've been blessed with some pretty cool experiences. All in good time. Right now, a nap is in order...

Of Pirates and Dictionaries.

Walking, walking, walking up Fleet Street, my new favorite place. Think Sweeney Todd, lawyers, tiered churches, winding alleys. I walk into a side alley leading to something called the "Inner Temple," one of the four Inns of Court that function like Bar Societies in the US. And suddenly, it's 200 years ago. The maze of narrow paths twist between buildings with signs proclaiming their occupants in curling black brushstrokes: Mr Bailey, Mr Winslow, and Miss Carton, Barristers. There are small gated gardens and wrought iron fences in this mini-city within a city. There are even elegant horse-drawn carriages parallel-parked on the side of the road. But wait, even if the lawyers retain the historical integrity of their offices, there's no way they take horse-drawn carriages to work...

And then I see a sign propped against a nearby wall: "Caution: Filming in Progress. Please Be Quiet." Eagerly, I turn the corner, following a trail of signs until the street opens up into a square that looks like a market scene out of the 1700s. There are rough wooden tables covered in vegetables, whole quails hanging from racks, and oak barrels stacked under canvas tents. I find a man with an official-looking ID badge and ask what they are filming. The next Pirates of the Caribbean movie, he replies. I look around quickly, half expecting Johnny Depp to sneak up and surprise me (it's been known to happen! http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1649580/20101008/story.jhtml  )

Sadly, Mr Depp did not arrive, as the elaborate set is only meant to appear in about 3 minutes of film, with stunt doubles standing in for the stars. Oh well, it was still a highly amusing diversion on a walk filled with surprises. I love how you can just walk around London and find something new at each turn. Or something old, I suppose, as most of the treasures are historically significant. Before the Pirates adventure, I followed a series of signs that led me through a knot of tiny alleys to a small building labeled only as "Dr Johnson's House." It turns out to be the home of Ben Johnson, author of the first dictionary, a great writer and fascinating figure in the history of London, preserved to retain its 17th-century character.

"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." So said Ben Johnson, so proclaims the sign outside his house, and so I learn each day as I revisit my favorite places and find new ones to delight me. I miss all of you terribly, and I wish you could be here with me because there truly is something that each one of you would love.

Wales: A History

This is belated (from the weekend of Sept 24, to be exact). My apologies. Stay tuned for the sequel-- Munich: An Introduction. 

************************


Cardiff, Wales. Home of Roald Dahl, dragon flags, a castle, the British Cheese Festival, shopping arcades, Brains brewery, windy afternoons, and bilingual signs, among other things. And, last weekend, me.

On a whim, three friends and I took the early train on Friday to Cardiff, a two-hour ride to the west coast of the island. When we stepped off, not much had changed, and yet at the same time, a lot had. The town was smaller, homier than London, not as glamorous but a little more comforting in its resemblance to something rather familiar... very familiar indeed. For some reason, I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was in the Midwest of Britain. Perhaps I've just been missing home a bit, but the people wearing shorts in 50 degree weather, the dairy, and the accents of the friendly residents all made me think of Michigan. This is not a place where people wear stilettos to work, it's a place where you can wear a pink raincoat (which I did) and not feel out of place. There were also a lot more children than any place I've been so far, and I eavesdropped on a grandmother telling her adorable granddaughter the story of Billy Goat Gruff. If you've never heard a Welsh woman telling a Mother Goose story, get on it, stat. I wanted to record her so I could listen to her marvelous voice in my spare time.

We also happened to stumble across the British Cheese Festival at Cardiff Castle (in the words of the advertisements on the street, "Cheese and a castle... what's not to love?"). I kept thinking of my brother as a five year-old, getting smoked cheddar cheese from the Dairy Store when every normal kid got ice cream. Mini-Pat would have loved Cardiff. So much delicious cheese and bread and wine and a bad live band and sunshine and a castle that reminded you of Monty Python.

One tourist shop had a big banner out front that proudly described Wales as "The Happy Country." I think that does sum up the whole place pretty well. When you have cows and dragons and pubs called "The Goat Major," it's hard not to smile a bit as you walk down the street, even if you don't have those sleek black boots they wear in London. 

London's Little Instruction Book

They say every mistake teaches you a lesson. So I guess the benefit of making lots of mistakes is that you learn lots of lessons. Enough to write a manual, of sorts:

1. Your two-hour break between classes is not sufficient time to schedule a cello lesson when it involves commuting from the center of the city to the edge.

2. If you decide to ignore the above, at least make sure it isn't pouring as you embark upon your odyssey.

3. If you STILL ignore the above (a tough guy, eh?) you're in for some fun. It takes longer to get to Finsbury Park on the tube than you think.

4. So you didn't look up which bus number to take from the tube station to your teacher's house. Nice job, Sherlock. Don't blame it on the broken internet, you should have tried harder. There's a nice man over there, ask him.

5. When the man at the information kiosk at first seems unable to understand English, this is not necessarily a bad sign. When he doesn't recognize the small map you printed off earlier: I repeat, do not give up hope. When he has the unexplainable epiphany that you should take bus W3, LISTEN TO HIM.

6. Do NOT get a second opinion from the man at the desk on the other side of the station, even if his English is perfect.

7. Repeat step 6, replacing "man at the other side of the station" with "trendy hipster waiting for Bus W7." And again, using "the French woman standing nearby."

8. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, BOARD BUS W7.

9. When, against all reason, you board bus W7, make sure you know where to get off before you are standing in the middle of the aisle and the doors are closing. This will prevent you from blocking the way for everyone else, nearly falling over and killing someone with your aptly named Bam instrument case when the bus abruptly moves, and generally making a huge erratic rain-soaked flustered mess of yourself.

10. There will be a very nice concerned citizen who takes pity on your plight and tells you where to get off this bus, which is not really near your intended destination. You will have realized by now that you made a terrible mistake by assuming the first man at the station didn't know what he was talking about. There is probably some deep moral about the evils of making assumptions, especially based on someone's accent. You feel like kind of a jerk.

11. Back to your rescuer. He will kindly make conversation even though you are still awkwardly blocking the entire aisle and receiving angry glances from all around. It will turn out that he went to Guildhall School of Music and Drama. And that he is a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company. And that he just finished a TV show. You will feel like he is probably a big deal but straight up asking what he's been in seems tacky. He's very down-to-earth about it all.

12. When the bus breaks down, don't panic. There's another one right behind you. Prepare for mass exodus to the transfer.

13. When you lose your Actor-friend in the scuffle, still don't panic. You're allowed to be a little worried, though. Where do you get off again?

14. When the bus stops at a place that seems promising, get off. This will save the Actor from having to miraculously appear from the upper level (yep, the good ol' double decker London bus) and yell over, "This is it! You should get off now!" Because then you will feel supremely incompetent. But also unspeakably grateful.

15. It will be pouring harder. Call your teacher, whom you have never actually met, but should have about half an hour ago. Tell her where you are. She will say you're still pretty far, you should probably just go back, let's reschedule for Monday morning.

16. Kick yourself several times with purpose. You were overly anxious and should have waited till Monday in the first place. Now you've made a bad first impression, you are tired from lugging your cello to the middle of nowhere, your socks are wet, and you have a 3 hour lecture to look forward to back at school.

17. Take the bus back to Finsbury Park. At least you know which one to take... HA. On the bus, inhale your peanut butter and jelly sandwich. You will start to feel a little better.

18. Back underground, back on the tube. You're afraid you'll see the man whose correct instructions you ignored, but you won't, which makes you miss him a bit. He seemed nice and happy.

19. Get off the tube at Piccadilly. Fight through the midday crowd. Re-enter school, feeling defeated.

20. These next steps are crucial, so listen up. Realize that, despite your unpleasant and pointless journey, you met so many people who were willing to help you. Recognize that people here are very kind, that they offer help without even being asked, they offer it cheerfully and sincerely.

21. Try to pay some of this kindness back into the world. Repeat. And repeat, and repeat.

IL PAPA

It was really a case of being in the right place at the right time and letting the day's events sweep me along.

As you may know, the Pope is in London, paying the first official visit to the UK in 30 years, and the second in history. His 3 days here are stuffed with meetings, diplomatic handshakes, and speeches, notably an address to Parliament that took place yesterday. My boss Zoe mentioned on Wednesday that she could try to get me a ticket, thought the chances were small. And indeed they were; she was unable to get a ticket to the actual speech, but she did manage one for a small room next to the hall where they would live-broadcast the Pope on TV and I would keep my fingers crossed that I'd somehow get to the real thing next door.

So, after a 3-hour class on Christianity and Islam and a very long walk, I dragged my sleepy self to Portcullis House to retrieve my ticket and allowed Zoe to shepherd me through the winding maze of Westminster Palace to the Central Hall, an astounding room filled with stained glass windows and gilt ceilings. From there, the 20 of us in the "holding cell" followed a very nice docent into the room from which we were to watch the speech. To get there, however, we had to walk through Westminster  Hall, the oldest part of Parliament, built in 1099. Pause for a moment. People have been debating, ruling, condemning, and compromising in that room for a thousand years. A thousand. I can't even wrap my mind around that. The vast stone walls were adorned with carvings of lions and griffins, the ornate oak ceiling beams with guardian angels. There was a brass band playing stately music, a red carpet leading down the stone steps of a dais, on top of which sat a throne-like red plush chair whose intended occupant had not yet arrived. On the wall adjacent to the dais, a huge stained glass window let in the late afternoon light. This hall has the same feel as a cathedral, and indeed, it is the political equivalent of a holy place. This is where the British court system was invented, where Sir Thomas More was sentenced, the only part of Parliament to survive the fire that destroyed so much of the city. To me, it all made the fantastical seem possible; I could have believed in Merlin and Narnia and dragons slain by chivalrous knights, enchanted as I was by my surroundings and their history.

The room was filling with an audience of statesmen and women wearing those fancy hats that British ladies like so much. Dreamily following the guide with my mouth slightly open in wonder, I vaguely noted what might have been an admiral before taking one last, longing glance at the hall and disappearing into a side corridor. It was like holding out a wedge of chocolate cake to the birthday girl and then throwing it out the window into a pile of cow manure (although hopefully no one keeps that stuff outside their windows... it's more for artistic effect to show convey the scope of my disappointment). All the waiting speech hopefuls sat with bated breath, hoping for some word that we would be allowed back to the hall with all the cool kids. Finally, after making friendly conversation with each other, we were informed we would all get seats in the hall. (In the words of Winston Churchill, "Never give up! Never! Never! Never! Never!" You just might get to see the Pope!)

We were ecstatic, all of us, even the serious man in the pin-striped suit. And our incredulous joy only increased as we were led past many rows of spectators, right up to the front of the room, about 100 feet back from the dais. It turns out that MPs go home to their constituencies on Friday afternoons, and many declined the Pope in favor of the comforts of home. Their loss was my gain, because all their vacant seats were in the front of the hall, and empty seats at big political functions look bad on TV. So guess who they used to take up the space? That's right, interns and secretaries and office workers got to sit in front of diplomats and benefactors and lords. In a country that still has a monarchy, there's a sort of poetic justice in that. So I satt down in my VIP seat, looked up, and the first thing I saw was... Tony Blair. Looking in my direction. I clapped my hand over my mouth and started giggling uncontrollably with the girl next to me, my new British friend sharing my wide-eyed enthusiasm. I don't know if Tony Blair saw our reaction, but I hope he did. And next to him, none other than Gordon Brown, with whom he was chatting amiably. A bit down from them, Lady Margaret Thatcher. Across, a crowd of cardinals decked out in their finest red. I tried, for a moment, to reflect upon the splendor around me, to appreciate my incredible good luck. Who was I to deserve to be there? But on the other hand, why shouldn't I? Events like this should be reserved for guests who truly appreciate them, not just powerful leaders going through the motions to maintain their reputations.

Now for the point of the whole grand affair: Il Papa. He arrived, fashionably late, to a fanfare of trumpets and made his way to his throne. After a short preamble by the Speaker of the House of Commons, Benedict got up to address Parliament (or rather, posers like me pretending to be Parliament). Confession: I have the utmost respect for Benedict and all his good works, but I've always thought his eyes lent him the appearance of a sinister evil genius. (Please don't smite me...) Standing at the podium, however, dressed in immaculate white to match his snowy hair and stooping slightly over the microphone, the Pope seemed gentle, grandfatherly, and wise. His voice was very soft and comforting, his German accent lending him the air of a kind professor. Every so often he would cough, making me wonder about his health. You couldn't help but want to care for this man, to do all you could for him.

The speech was very well done (no surprise there, Benedict is an acclaimed writer and probably has legions of speechwriters to help him out), if a little general. It focused on the importance of tolerance and upholding morals... bread-and-butter issues, nothing too unexpected. But the event itself was historic, given the collection of people and the location, and I enjoyed every minute. Afterwards, the Pope shook hands with the former Prime Ministers, seeming again like a fond old grandfather, and took his leave with an entourage of cardinals and security guards. The crowd began to rustle, the politicians started to rise. The next thing I knew, Margaret Thatcher was standing five feet away as she walked down an aisle with a man on each side to support her. Sporting a pink suit and a fluffy perm, the former head of state was, frankly, adorable.

I allowed myself to be herded away with the large crowd, drifting through doors and courtyards and finally reaching the lobby of Portcullis again. It was nearly empty, except for stocky a middle-aged man with a platinum blond bowlcut who looked oddly familiar. It was Boris Johnson, the mayor of London, whose face I knew because it was splashed all over the newspapers when my family was in England a few years ago during the mayoral elections. Boris always seemed to have an air of mild befuddlement about him, and this impression proved true when he asked me how to use the revolving doors. Me. The mayor asked me.

"Oh... uh... you just, you just push the button and then it spins."

"What? Well, let me see you do it first."

"[nervous laughter] ok..." *thinking* Oh no does the mayor think I'm laughing at him? I'm not I'm just awkward and what am I supposed to say and why doesn't he know how to use his own doors?


He did figure it out, eventually, and the proceeded to throw on a shabby backpack before tearing off on a nondescript bicycle. I wonder if the people of London know their mayor just rides around town on a bike in the middle of the day. I think that's pretty cool; exactly what a mayor should do, really.

What a day. I pretended to be a Parliamentarian, saw the Pope, giggled at Tony Blair, and taught the mayor how to use a door. All the work of Serendipity, that old friend of mine. Thank you to the powers that gave me the most enthralling day in recent history. I am still filled with awe and gratitude.

Parliament

I just realized I haven't told you anything about my internship yet, which I must do in order to relate some ridiculously cool events that happened yesterday. So here's a quick overview of my life as a working woman...

Parliament. It's not the US government with British accents. Though there are some similarities in structure between the two, it's a very different system. Citizens (or Subjects, as they are sometimes called) directly elect their Ministers of Parliament (MPs), but the Prime Minister gains power by dint of his position as leader of the majority party, not through an election of the people. So the executive is also a legislator, which, as my 7th grade history teacher Mrs. Kregelka would like to remind you, would not fly in the US because of that whole rule about separation of powers. There are a lot of other differences, but without turning this into a civics lecture, suffice it to say that Parliament FEELS like a government when you walk inside, just like the Capitol does- the crisp suits, dark oak walls, and vaulted ceilings dazzle the first-time visitor and create an atmosphere that buzzes with excitement and anticipation.

I work for Ben Wallace, an MP from Wyre and Preston North (Google map it!). He is an outgoing and friendly man with rosy cheeks and that slightly intimidating quality of delivering jokes in such a manner that you never know whether to laugh or not. My first conversation with him revolved around his constituency, Detroit, and the pubs I should go to. Unlike senators, MPs do not have a large staff to work with. In the office of Ben Wallace, it's just his office manager Zoe and myself. (P.S. Zoe is my boss and she is a wizard. The office would fall apart without her.) Which means they actually need my help to get through the work that piles up each day. It's not like I'm writing policies or anything, but on my first day I was already writing response letters to constituents, who contacted Ben for help with anything from child support payments to hospital closures. To do so, I have to read the history of the case, and in doing so I get to learn a lot about the lives of British citizens and the problems they face. I'm also in charge of opening and sorting my MP's mail each morning. The other day he received an abacus from a professor concerned about the demise of education in Britain. I don't know what the abacus was supposed to do, but it was fun to open. Oh, and I also had to RSVP to some events, which was slightly embarrassing because sometimes the person on the other end couldn't understand my accent. ("Wait, where are you calling from? Whose office?") So much for being smooth.

The thing that strikes me most about Parliament is its accessibility. It's not like anyone can just stroll in, but within 2 days I got my security pass, allowing me bypass the metal detector each morning and access pretty much any door in that beautiful beautiful building on the Thames. (Our office is actually in Portcullis House, a modern building next to Westminster housing over 200 MPs, but it connects to the Palace next door.) I've never worked in Congress, but I have a feeling that I see much more of my MP than I would of a Senator, with a huge staff and a much larger district to represent. There is something more personal about the British MPs that I like-- it actually feels like they can offer direct assistance to their constituents.

It's a unique opportunity, to be sure. As an American getting an inside peek at the British government, I almost feel like I'm intruding into someone else's home. But everyone is very friendly and eager for me to see as much as I can. Hopefully I'll get to sit in on a debate soon, which will be fascinating. I'll keep you updated.

Anyway, I have to run, but soon I'll post an account of the events of yesterday, which I mentioned at the beginning. Oh foreshadowing, gotta love it.

Gobsmacked.

First, a few definitions.

Royal Albert Hall: One of Britain's most famous concert halls. Shaped like an amphitheater with a dome on top, sumptuously decorated with elaborate stone columns and red velvet seats. Named for Prince Albert, the son of Queen Victoria (I don't know what he did to deserve such a splendid namesake. Oh monarchy, you are silly.)

The Proms: a series of concerts at Royal Albert Hall from July to September in which famous orchestras from all over the world come to perform. So named because concertgoers "queue up" (to use another British term) the day of the concert to buy standing-room tickets. They watch from the arena, the space directly in front of the orchestra, or the gallery, a balcony spanning the top level of the hall, where they can walk (promenade) about. 

Now, the narrative. 

The Underground workers are on strike, but luckily I managed to take one of the few lines still open to South Kensington, a wealthy area full of museums, theaters, Harrod's, and the Royal Academy of Music. My friends and I were issued raffle tickets, which we later exchanged (along with 5 pounds) for real tickets. We waited a outside in the lovely cool air for about an hour and a half. The atmosphere was that of a college tailgate. A really classy tailgate. Open trunks of cars revealed gourmet meals within, couples eating on fine china with silverware. Spectators in the "queue" brought picnics to eat while they waited, complete with wine (no laws against open alcohol containers outdoors to restrain them). The 50-ish man next to me spewed pita bread and hummus everywhere as he enthusiastically talked to his friend about finances. The most striking thing about the waiting audience was its diversity. I've been to a lot of orchestra concerts in my life, and the stereotype that they attract older audiences tends to be true. This crowd, however, was filled with young people, old people, middle-aged businessmen, goth people, well-dressed people, students, families, and countless others of every imaginable age, background, and nationality, all enthusiastically throwing a pre-concert block party. The atmosphere inside Royal Albert Hall was even more exciting. The beautiful auditorium is stunning, and I took my place in the gallery, a balcony running all the way around the circular room, next to a friendly British woman who has been to no fewer than 30 concerts this year. There are no seats in the gallery, so the audience either stands against the railing or sits on the floor; many brought cushions and blankets for the occasion, furthering the sense of a giant, classy block party.

Then, the orchestra. Oh, the orchestra. Wow, the orchestra! It wasn't only classical music nerds like me who were amazed. The Orchestre National de France (guess where they're from??) played pieces by Debussy and Stravinsky, and did it with such talent. Even though I was in the upper realms of the hall, I could hear every note perfectly. The thing that amazes me about professional orchestras is that the conductor does not actually keep the time; the musicians do that themselves. Rather, he (or she) signals entrances and dynamics about a second before they are actually supposed to happen, painting a picture of what the music will do next. And yet the musicians are still so together; they share some innate sense of unity that allows them to sense the thoughts of that trumpet player in the last row as well as the stand of violinists in front of them. The percussionist has the hardest job of all, because it's pretty obvious if he misplaces his moment of glory after being silent for half the piece. The timpani player in this orchestra was probably the best musician in the group, crashing and thundering and rumbling at the moment precisely calculated to thrill the audience. I could go on, but I won't. Suffice it to say it was the best concert I've ever been to by far. Seriously inspiring.

You thought I was finished, didn't you? Wait, I have one more things to tell you about. As if Wednesday's events weren't cool enough, on Thursday I saw a West End production of Arthur Miller's "All My Sons." My friend and I stood in line at the theater that morning to get day seats for 10 pounds, which turned out to be the balconies in the front of the auditorium. I always wondered who got to sit there; I assumed it was important people or people who payed a lot of money. Turn out it's just my friend and me and an elderly British couple who asked if we were on holiday. We had to lean on the railing a little to see the side of the stage closest to us, but I would have been on the edge of my seat anyway, so gripping were the players in front of us. If you don't know the play, I won't spoil it for you with a long summary that won't do it justice. It's Miller, which means it's American, it's about a family, it's heart-breaking yet somehow redeeming at the same time. I came out with that sense of catharsis the Greeks liked to talk about so much. All the emotion of the past two hours left me feeling exhausted but clean, filled with wonder at the world. I wish I could bottle that feeling up and take sips occasionally to remind me what it's like to feel amazed by what it's like to be a human.

So on the night after the best concert ever I saw the best play ever. I feel so lucky to have experienced what I did. If only I could take it back to you all and share it-- what a gift that would be. 

I wrote this instead of folding my laundry.

Imagine you're a Purdue fan. (Use your imagination.) It's the first football game of the season. You're in London at Sportscafe, the only venue that will air American sports. You're sitting with your friends, enjoying a beer and the highly caloric "American Platter" and waiting for the kick-off.

And then, the unthinkable occurs.

100 Notre Dame students, those brats from the enemy school on the screen in front of you, storm the room. They yell, they cheer, they wear a sickening shade of green. What hell is this? What have you done to earn such scorn from above? Things are looking bad; you are losing; you have lost. You are a good sport, though, so you avoid confrontation and proceed to dance with the victors to strange European techno music.

Saturday night passed in a flurry of loud camaraderie and ended in a lot of really bad (but fun) dancing. Now to backtrack. On Friday, two of my flatmates and I went on a scavenger hunt around London to find places where the Harry Potter movies were filmed. We went to Platform 9 3/4, the Australian Embassy (aka Gringotts) and a couple of pubs that served as the Leaky Cauldron. Along the way, we found some very cool diversions. Southwark Cathedral, built in the 1200s, is a beautiful old church near the Tower Bridge. Borough Street Market is filled with bright colors, delicious aromas, and interesting people. Oh, and I should mention that we took pictures of ourselves at each location, complete with Potter glasses and scarf. We may have embarrassed ourselves, but we made the pub patrons laugh.

Saturday I went on a tour of Stonehenge and Bath. It ended up being a lot of time on the bus and not enough time exploring, but it was still interesting. Stonehenge just kind of pops up off the highway, almost like one of those cheesy roadside attractions you always see billboards for. Except instead of the World's Largest Ball of String, it's the World's Oldest Mystery Rock Pile. That sounds cynical--it actually was interesting, but three hours hurtling down narrow country roads with a manic bus driver kind of weakened my enthusiasm for the whole thing. Bath, however, was beautiful; I've been there once before with my family, and its Georgian architecture and small-town charm were just as lovely as ever.

So for the past couple of days, I have been practicing cello in the flat. I hope my roommates don't mind the noise; my family has learned to tune it out over the years, but I'm sure it's a bit trying if you're trying to study physiology and the crazy girl in the next room as screeching out the end of the Lalo concerto. They're too nice to say if it's actually bothering them, though. I'll hopefully set up lessons this week and find a more permanent place/time to practice. This week should also start my internship in Parliament; I can't wait.

Now, it's past midnight and there's a group of kids gathered around the kitchen table trying to plan weekend trips and fall break. I need to go get my laundry, but the five flights of stairs between myself and warm towels are making me stall. However, my bed is calling and I must gather my things and oblige. My next post will be less scattered, I hope. For now, good night.

Way Out

Today, August 30, 2010, marks a monumental event in my life: I navigated a large city by myself without getting lost. You know me, you know my abysmal lack of directional skills, you know I frequently get turned around in the small town I have lived in for 15 years. This is a new beginning, a threshold to a new life where people ask me for directions and I can actually give a coherent answer. Probably not, actually; I'm sure I'll get lost as soon as tomorrow, but I'm still kind of proud of myself.


I started at Kamen House, the flat where I'm staying, and walked to St. Paul's Cathedral, a huge and beautiful old church with a 12 pound admission fee that I declined, as I was on a mission to find the Thames. Find it I did, and as an added bonus, there was a quartet made up of a violin, viola, cello, and piano playing Libertango from memory in the sun next to the Millenium Bridge. I sat for awhile, just listening and being content with the world. 


Next on my self-directed walking tour was the South Bank, an area that houses all sorts of theaters and museums, which I will definitely be frequenting in the coming weeks. "Hamlet" for 10 pounds at the National Theatre? Yes please. London Philharmonic? Absolutely. The path by the river was lovely, but rather crowded as today is a bank holiday, Britain's equivalent of Labor Day. There were lots of families with scooter-wielding young children enjoying their day off. And yes, British accents automatically make children cute.


Finally, I ventured toward Piccadilly Circus, a photogenic and chaotic commercial center with streets branching out in all directions. I met my friend Jack, a British native who went to my high school and goes to college in England, and we walked to a cafe down the street (actually a "patisserie" if you want to get snobby around it, but same difference!). I had a chocolate eclair, which was good, and some coffee, which was not, as it was actually a tiny shot of cringe-inducing espresso. But overall, a successful reunion. Like the music at the bridge, a small piece of familiarity is welcome in an unfamiliar place. 


School starts tomorrow. Our classes meet either twice a week for 75 minutes or once for about 3 hours, so tomorrow I am going to be learning a LOT about Christianity and Islam. I'm excited to establish a routine and find interesting places on the long walk between the flats and the classrooms. I've already noticed an astrology shop, a cupcake bakery, and the Charles Dickens museum, among other things. It's slowly starting to hit me that I am living here and not just on vacation. Maybe classes will solidify that feeling.  

A parting fun fact: British exits don't say "exit," they say "way out." Which makes me think of "psychedelic." Which is what I will call exits in the small island nation that I will one day rule.

First Impressions

I am sitting on one of the couches in the living room of my flat. Out the window, I have a view of St. Paul's Cathedral (we have the best view of all the units, if I do say so myself). So there's still a dome rising in the background, even if it doesn't have a giant gold-plated statue of Mary on it.

So the trip went fairly smoothly, except for the initial checking of baggage. I only brought one suitcase because I had to check my cello, and I knew it would probably be overweight but decided to just pay the fine. So we get to the Detroit airport (which is REALLY nice, even if Detroit isn't) and, yes indeed, my bag weighs 62 lbs, 12 lbs over the TSA-enforced limit. The man behind the counter, a middle-aged man with a slight middle Eastern accent, says it will cost $200. WHAT. Arghghg. My mom sighs and says we'll just pay it, but I am visibly upset. The United Air employee takes pity on me and tells me to open my suitcase and take out 12 lbs, surely I can fit that much in my backpack and if not, he'll give me a paper bag to carry it in (oh so classy). So I unzip my suitcase. "Oh, those shoes there, take them out. And jeans, those are always heavy, take them too. Trust me, I do this 10 times a day," says the man, tactfully ignoring the bag of tampons sitting on top of the pile of clothes. Oy. So I get the bag down to 50 pounds. The man shoots me a sideways glance and says quietly, "You can put another pair of shoes back in there, I don't mind." So, at a grand total of 51.5 lbs, my bag is on its way. I don't know if the United man's motives were plain old kindness or his blatant hatred for TSA officials, but I sincerely thank him all the same. 

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful. A short flight to Chicago, a very long one to London. Met upon arrival by chill rain and an EXTREMELY chipper director of the study abroad program. Off to the flat, time for a quick shower, then a 45-minute walk to the London Centre (note the consciously British spelling), a beautiful building on Trafalgar Square where we will have class. Staying awake through orientation was a struggle, but somehow I made it. Walking back to the flat, it started raining, and none of the people I was walking with had umbrellas so we got soaked. A rookie's mistake. I crashed around 8:30 London time and woke up in the morning feeling much more like a human being than I had during the previous day.

London. There is just so much of it. I know that's about as general a statement as has ever been written, but it's true. I am intrigued, intimidated, dazzled. I will elaborate-- after I've seen more. And gotten a bit more sleep. Goodnight... 


P.S. Did you know the title to this post was the original manuscript title of "Pride and Prejudice?" Aren't I clever??? (Or maybe just a HUGE NERD.)

Testing, Testing, 123

This is a fake-out. I am not, in fact, in London. At the moment, I am in my very American bedroom surrounded by a very American jumble of items that may or may not make the final cut for Katie's All-Star Travel Team. T-minus 1.5 days to liftoff and I would say my packing skills are averaging around a C+. My high school self would be horrified with that GPA. I hate stuff, and yet I have so much of it. I am in denial. I am misdirecting. (I thought that was a psychology term but now I'm pretty sure it's what magicians do.) I need some inspiration from a certain magic roomie who neatly packs her life into a suitcase several times a year while I, blessed (or cursed) with the luxury of a car and a home within driving distance, shove everything into the trunk while my father shakes his head in disbelief. I shall change my ways, hopefully before I give myself an ulcer.

Anyway. I'm ready to go. I'm ready to live in a big city and find interesting places and meet interesting people and make carrying a cello look cool. (Really I'm not feeling all that ready, but if I put it on the internet, it becomes true. Right...?) It's hard to think about leaving my friends and family and all the things I love and that bring me comfort. Move-in weekend came and went, class starts tomorrow at Notre Dame, and I'm still home. I keep expecting a phone call or an angry e-mail from the mysterious and all-powerful Office of the Registrar asking me why I'm not at school. But it's OK, I'm just going on a field trip. An extended, all-encompassing field trip. And when I return, I'll have so much to share with people I couldn't take with me. Heck, if I really like them I might even bring them a t-shirt.

Truly, I'm excited. It's an adventure, and I plan on taking in as much as I can. I'll see you in London.

Cheers.