Talking the talk with the Londoners

Chrissy and I just returned from our journey to Covent Garden in search of delicous and inexpensive greek food. The mission was moderately successful but exhausting as I am already running on little sleep from last night. I decided that now would be a good time for a power nap.

Unfortuantely it seems I'm not on the same page as the rest of the Gubbay Hall residents. Some anonymous british guys seem to have decided now would be a good time for laughter and lively conversation outside my window, making it impossible for me to execute my original plan. An honest mistake on their part, yes, but I'm afraid that these kind of mishaps will reoccur if certain individuals continues making decisions without my consent. Frustrating to say the least.

However having no other choice but to listen to their banter (entertaining though sometimes indistinguishable) made me think about the pathetic state of the authentic British accent I planned to develope during my stay here. I have yet to really nail it and I'm running out of time! I can genuinely say I've improved––no longer mimicking the proper Queen's english that Americans imagine but instead acknowledging the regional differences that exist from borough to borough, but still, I am definitely no expert.

My friend Steve, an East Londoner, spelled out some of the local dialect for me and made it a lot easier for me to identify the patterns. For instance, East Londoners don't pronounce their T's, replace their TH's with F or V and add R's in places I still don't understand. And of course they use dozens of unique expressions that I must admit are sort of catchy.

SO! Lets try it, shall we? Now if I was talking about my little brother Anthony and say, assessing his atheltic abilities I might say "My little brother is wicked fast. Hes talented but a sort of jerk."

But in London I would say "My li'l brovah is quite farst. 'Ees got loads of talent but 'ees a bi' of a prick."

But I probably wouldn't say that either, cause I think Anthony is probably sort of slow and definitely not a jerk. Sorry Brotha Man! I miss you very much.

If Steve or any other local were to hear me or at least read this, they would probably make fun of me for a long time. But they might call it "having a bubble" which is cockney rhyming slang for having a laugh. Look it up.

Ok, so theres room for improvement. I'll work on it––after I get a nap in. 15 minutes! Thats all I ask!

The jokes on me, I think.

I've really enjoyed venturing around all the boroughs of London and checking places off my list. Exploring has generally been a low stress activity with few incidents that I'm aware of.

Though I have had one reoccuring problem. Despite my initiative to research places, locate their nearest tube and carefully examine the proper route from the tube to the final destination, I've got into a routine of taking an immediate turn in the wrong direction and ending up lost for quite sometime.

I'd like to say it's only happened a few times but looking back, I'm pretty sure its been everytime. Starting with me and Chrissy's trip to the Natural History Museum and Buckingham Palace, followed by my solo adventures to church in South Kensington, Regent Park, Notting Hill, St. James Park, Covent Garden and again, Buckingham Palace coming from a different direction.

Some people in my unique postion might consider asking for directions after leaving the tube station but I can't seem to accept that––partially cause I don't mind walking and partially because I suspect that this is an elaborate conspiracy that the entire city of London is in on.

Does that seem far fetched? Maybe. But I swear, its the only explanation. I have taken plenty if time looking at maps, reading signs and being patient yet everytime without fail I end up a mile in the wrong direction. So it must be a joke, right? Perhaps my life has become like "The Truman Show" and people everywhere are watching and enjoying my confusion, changing the direction of the signs just before I arrive and disguising locations to really throw me off. All the while, they're secretly routing for me to figure it all out on my own––to storm Big Ben with all my frustration and finally discover that its just cardboard and not the real thing at all.

Yes, I think that must be it. A conspiracy. A big joke at my innocent American expense. Definitely not just my own ignorance or poor sense of direction.

Good one London! You got me this time. But I'm not giving up just yet.

Cheapest Umbrella at Harrod's? 22 pounds...

London was two dozen shades of grey this afternoon and the rain put a literal damper on what was supposed to be a few hours in St. James Park. And worst of all, I forgot to bring an umbrella!

Heh, just kidding. I didn't forget my umbrella, I just don't own one.

I know, I know, London rain, blah blah blah, but in all fairness it hasn't been a big problem. Still, an umbrella should have been the first thing on my list of things to pack but unfortunately I didn't have one of those either, though I suspect my mother made one for me and used it as a reference when she harassed me all the way out the door back in June. "Do you have your passport? Hair dryer? Socks? How many pairs? Underwear? How many pairs? ..." and so on and so on.

Anyway, umbrella or none, I wasn't about to let a little rain send me back on the tube to Trent Park so I decided to pursue an indoor activity. As I was in the area, I supposed it would be a good time to pay a visit to the legendary department store Harrod's.

And that was fun for, I don't know, the first nine seconds.

I walked past a few counters selling perfume and make up, checked one price tag and after that it was all pretty annoying and a little depressing. Prior to my visit all I knew about Harrod's was that it was humongous, infamous and the place where a friend of mine spent 18pounds on a pizza for lunch. Incase you American folks were wondering, 18pounds is equal to $28.08. For... PIZZA!

Now 99% of the time if you put me with in 20 feet of attractive clothing or jewelry, I will at least carefully consider the merchandise and more than likely buy something if I have the means. A sick voice in my head says "Alison, you NEED that dress. No! Better yet, you DESERVE it!" and just like that, I'm sold. Or, well, the dress is.

But Harrod's did not inspire me in the slightest. The crowds were overwhelming and the entire atmosphere just seemed so pretentious to me. I don't understand why people want to go there so badly. If you're a celebrity or a big CEO or a lottery winner, then yes, a trip to Harrod's is probably pretty exciting but if you're say, a 21 year old college student whose primary income comes from the St Ann's front desk then no, not as much. It's not that I felt jealous or sad that I couldn't afford anything, I just couldn't understand why so many people in the same position as me were so delighted to be there.

It all just seems backwards to me, really. I think I'd be more excited to be in a Walmart than Harrods. I guess expensive things and name brands just don't mean much to me and they certainly don't impress me. I'm impressed by people who work hard and spend their money in intelligent ways. But people who are spending over 1,000 pounds on a single handbag just annoy me. Yes, we get it, you shop at Harrod's––you're rich. Congratulations. Who cares about all the starving people in the world when you can buy diamonds, right?

WOOF!

I had a much better time last Saturday when I went out to Notting Hill. I walked around for hours and I didn't mind the crowds because the atmosphere was much less depressing. Everything was bright and everyone was happy and I had really, really great pizza. And it only cost me 3 quid.

I did feel like the ultimate lame girly tourist though, feeling all giddy and romantic on Portobello Road. I was pretending that I was just a local enjoying the market on a Saturday, not some American who saw a Hugh Grant movie and felt compelled to make it part her own reality. But I was alone, so I was only lying to myself and eventually that seemed silly. So yeah, I took a picture of the famous Travel Bookshop.

I know, I know. I'm SUCH a girl.

Ah, now I'm exhausted and I must wake up early to prepare for my FINAL Shakespeare class. And all I can say about that is THANK. GOD. I really like Shakespeare but these 3 hour blocks have been brutal. I swear, if I can get through tomorrow without attempting to jump off the Tower Bridge in the middle, I will be happy. And alive, so thats good.

Shout out to Shawn Hennessy, my apparent avid reader. Oh haaay girl!

Lesson Learned at Chase Farm Hospital

I rarely take myself too seriously but should I ever start––I think the memory of explaining the painful burn on my butt to various employees at Chase Farm Hospital will humble me.

My sense of humor has always been one of my best qualities. Despite my tendency to worry as well as my exhaustingly cyncical nature, I'm proud to say that I rarely lose sight of whats funny, even when its at my expense. I've laughed myself and others through a lot of painful situations––including my Junior High basketball teams 0-21 record and some of Camp Haiastan's most unsuccessful canoe trips.

Despite the physical wound on my bottom and the ruthless bruises to my ego, yesterday's trip to the emergency room was no different in terms of my attitude.

I was escorted by Amy, one of the summer school wardens. She was great company and really nice about everything but I felt sorry that she was forced to come along when I knew she just wanted to spend the afternoon doing her laundry. But aside from feeling guilty and annoyed about a wasted afternoon, I was in good enough spirits when I approached the check in counter of the emergency room.

The receptionist, a woman of about 45, was straight faced and impatient. She never introduced herself but if I had to guess her name, I would probably pick something like Susan or Carol.

Really, in my opinion, she looked just like a "Carol the ER receptionist."

A poster with a picture of a paramedic and police officer hung behind her head. It read "I'ts your choice: Stop the harassment of ER employees" and it made me think there must be an explanation for her defensiveness. She asked me what the problem was.

"I have a minor burn," I explained, "its about 6 days old and it doesn't seem to be healing. I just want to make sure its not infected so if someone could take a quick look––"

Carol cut me off. "––Its not going to be 'quick.'" she assured me in a matter of fact way that showed me how unnecessary she found my optimism. I didn't appreciate it. I knew I would most likely be waiting for a long time, as I wasn't exactly an urgent case, but I was trying to have a good attitude.

I suppose Carol thought I was going to be a troublemaker. You know, I bet she thought I'd be one of those patients who keeps coming back to the desk demanding to be seen sooner and vocalizing suspicous observations about the people around who get treated before them. Carol probably deals with a lot of that nonsense so I was silently understanding. People can be really nasty sometimes.

I was thankful to have Amy with me as Carol had some issues I didn't quite know how to address. She wanted to know why I didn't have a "GP," whatever that means, and Amy kindly took the lead in explaining my situation as an international student on a short stay. I gathered that a GP was just a primary care physician and I didn't see any reason I should have one for only 6 weeks when England has free health care for everyone, but Carol disagreed.

After filling out the necessary forms, I watched as Carol entered my information into the computer. She had more comments than she did questions. "Purgatory Road," she stated predictably when noticing my home address, "well THATS a strange street to live on!"

"You think so?" I responded, "No one ever points that out to me." My sarcasm can be a little harsh sometimes. I'd like to tell you that I've been making an effort to be more polite but I won't because, well, thats just not true.

Finally, she got to the important part.

"So where is this burn?" she asked without looking up for her computer. I glanced at Amy who was smiling in a I-feel-sorry-for-you way.

I hesitated. I felt I should choose my words carefully. "On my.. bum."

Yes, I called it a "bum." In the moment, "bum" sounded like the most mild description as well as the most British word choice.

I watched Carols expression change. She looked at me with curious eyes and a small but distinct smirk. I suppose I had her attention now. "We-ell," she urged me, "what did you burn yourself with?"

I was tired of telling the story already. But of course, I had no choice. "A hair straightener, you know––a flat iron" I said.

"But how did you... why was your..." Carol couldn't seem to peice it together.

I carried on with the details as necessary. "I sat on it." My tone showed patience despite my exhaustion. "I unplugged it, threw it on a my bed and forgot a moment later when I sat down. I was wearing a dress. Thats how it happened."

There was a short pause before she responded. "Well," she said with an impossibly serious expression, "thats not a very sensible thing to do, now is it?"

Sensible.

She asked me if my actions were sensible. The word offended me and pleased me at the same time. I wanted to laugh and I wanted to yell but I tried to remain expressionless.

No, Carol. No.

To answer your rude and hopefully rhetorical question, I do not think sitting on a hot iron is a sensible thing to do. In fact, I myself might argue that my actions could be desribed as the opposite of sensible. More accurate terms come to mind such as foolish, unintelligent, ill-considered, and stupid. I assure you, Carol, with a fair vocabularly like mine, I could come up with some really true and authentic words to explain my mistake without ever sneaking "sensible" into the mix.

But I thank you for your attention and feedback, Carol. As not only a hospital employee but a human being, I value your opinion and your words will not be easily forgotten.

The remainder of my trip was equally if not more so humilating. I was asked to show my wound to what seemed like an unnecessary number of doctors before I was actually treated. It made me suspicous that the hospital was getting a laugh at my expense. But I'm not greedy so I let them all in on it. Afterall, I bet ER Doctors need a good laugh every now an again and I'm happy if I could help. I unbuckled my belt and removed my pants 3 times with both the obligatory level of shame and a contradicting smile.

I left Chase Farm Hospital with a few good things: reassurance that there will be no infection and my "bum" is safe, a big sticky bandage that can be seen through some of my shorts and a reminder of exactly who I am.

I am smart but absent-minded, cynical but entertaining, hard on myself but a good sport in the end. And definitely not sensible.

Lesson learned.

I still don't understand...

...why the British think their too good for American cheese. AN ENTIRE NATION IS MISSING OUT ON SOMETHING DELICIOUS!

It's just not right.

The birds and the bees in Regent Park

Ipod in ear and book in hand, I walked around Regent park for quite sometime before I could decide where to settle. As I was on my own and tend to be indecisive, I debated with myself for about an hour, going back and fourth between the open fields, gardens and benches with a fountain view.

The idea of sitting by the pond was eliminated fairly early on account of too many ducks.

I like ducks, and most animals, but I think London ducks are a little too forward for me. American ducks are more stand offish and reserved where as London ducks are social. They have no problem surrounding you and making noise when you're trying to relax. And there were hundreds of them. Regents Park seemed to be their headquarters, as well as the headquarters for geese, pigeons, swans, and more birds I couldn't identify. The pond was clearly the least appealing option. Foriegn birds make me suspicous.

Anyway, I eventually settled in what was called "Queen Mary's Garden." The area was made up of beds of roses––more color roses than I knew exhisted. And each rose bed had a name, like "Invincible" or "Happiness" and I thought that was nice except it made it harder for me to choose a place to stop. I eventually took a bench between "Nostalgia" and "Singing in the Rain" and I sat their quietly by myself for 2 hours––ample time to read, think and people watch.

Whenever I spend time at a park I like to take note of the gold plated dedications posted on donated benches. You know, the ones that say things like "In Memory of Sally Benchsitter, who spent many beautiful days here."

I wondered if I would have have a gold plate like that at a place that I loved, and I started to wish I could start going to that place immediately.

After reflecting on the last few years I determined that the only places in my life that warrent bench dedications are the St Anns front desk, the Art floor in the Admin building and the Student Publication office. I think thats pretty depressing. All three locations are at Emmanuel, directly related to my work and stress, and a bench would just look silly there or at least be in the way.

Its hard to admit but my time in London is running short. I don't suppose its possible that I make myself any kind of home here with only 18 days left at my leisure. But I hope I can take my aspiration back to Boston––I won't waste a minute of my senior year. I'm going to get through my work and its not going to be easy but I'm going to do more of what I want to do, where and when I want to do it. And someday, maybe, there will be a bench with my name on in the Boston Commons.

Or at least at the Muddy River. Who can say?

I really enjoy days like yesterday. It may be hard to believe if you know me but I truly value time to myself where I can just be quiet. I know no one forces me to talk on a regular basis but sometimes I get caught up. I'm always trying to joke and keep things lively but its good to sometimes be silent and selfish––not responsible for anyone elses entertainment.

The only thing that bothered me was all the bees buzzing around my ears, forcing me to sit a little more still than I would have liked. But I suppose thats just how it works. If you want to sit among the roses you have to risk getting stung by the bees, right? Thats how its always going to be. I'd encourage anyone to try it––I think its worth the risk.

Well, unless of course you're allergic to bee stings, in which case you could always give the ducks a chance. They are cheerful and you may just find their enthusiasm rather charming.

Ah, I feel the need to apologize now. You readers, if you're still with me, must be terribly bored. I should be writing about more exciting things while I'm here in Europe. Perhaps I should be out right now––bungee jumping, or getting a tattoo, or at least participating in an old fashioned Pub crawl.

I may not be getting too crazy but I am, for the most part, doing what I want to do. I'm exploring and taking time to think and learn about new things, just like I planned. The only dream that remains unfufilled is that of my time as a London dog walker.

Early this morning while reading The Revenger's Tragedy before class in Trent Park, a woman walked by with seven dogs––all her own. They followed her obediently, except the one she called William, who stopped by to say hello to me.

Oh, cruel pup! Why must you mock me so?

Philly, if you're reading this, please come out and visit! We will have fun! I PROMISE! And you can bring Kathryn too but you'll probably have to lend her some cash for the plane ticket. It's alright, you know shes good for it!

--

For those of you who don't like reading, and I know there are a few, here are a few on my favorite pictures from Paris. I was able to visit the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Musee d'Orsay, Notre Dame, and Jardins du Luxemburg. Overall I thought Paris was beautiful! But, I admit, I have little use for the rudeness of most of the french.

Navigating. We're like pros at this kind of stuff.

Me, Chrissy and Adela at the Louvre

Jardin des Tuileries

Notre Dame de Paris

I try to humor Adela sometimes... I guess she just likes fun.

Shout out to my NOTRE DAME SISTAHS! St Julie is MY GIIIIRL!

Jardin de Luxemburg... so beautiful.

The river

Jardin de Luxemburg. Chrissy, you're perfect.

I literally begged Adela to stop taking pictures in the Musee d'Orsay..

she responded "Stop complaining, you're gunna have some really SWEET pictures if you just relax."

Eiffel Tower with Jason, Meredith, Nicole, Adam, myself and Chrissy. Friends made in Barcelona meeting up in Paris? Pretty awesome.

Party at the Louvre. OH HAAAAAY!