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.