My Heart's in the Highlands

“My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;

A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.”

-Robert Burns

Scotland. Where do I begin?

I suppose I shall begin at the beginning – the 8:00 am train ride to the beautiful city of Edinburgh. I settle in to the surprisingly comfortable seat and sleepily gaze out at the vivid green landscape of the English countryside…but I can’t quite seem to relax. A girl nearby is talking, rather loudly, to her mother on the phone. Trying to end the call, the girl quickly explains that she needs to begin reading Shakespeare’s King Lear. Apparently, her mother had problems hearing her. I certainly didn’t.

“I have to read King Lear.”

“Mom. King Lear.”

“Kiiiiiiiing Leeeeeaaaar.”

“King Lear? King Lear?! KING LEAR!!!”

Lovely.

Four hours later we arrived in Edinburgh. Unbeknown to me, Scotland is a humble, and oft unrecognized, cradle of modern civilization. Scots are responsible for the invention of golf, the television, the telephone, the bicycle, the steam engine, universal standard time, radar, criminal fingerprinting, the refrigerator, AND flush toilets, just to name a few.

Scotland also has a wee artistic side to it. (Did you notice I said ‘wee’?) Scottish musicians include Annie Lennox, Franz Ferdinand, The Fratellis, Snow Patrol, and KT Tunstall. Most importantly though, Scotland has given birth to some of the finest actors in Hollywood: Gerard Butler (my personal favorite), Sean Connery, and Ewan McGregor.

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Yet, the following day, as we travel from Edinburgh into the majestic Highlands, I realize that Scotland’s most valuable claim is not penicillin, not television, not even – dare I say it – Gerard, but rather, its mysterious power to transcend time and space.

Driving through the Monadhliath Mountains past stunning lochs, I watch as the mist hangs low over the mighty mountain crags. Along the winding slopes, the rusty heather sways lazily in the wind. And through the rain-speckled window, the turning trees blur into a blazing kaleidoscope of fiery color.

I’m rooted within the present and the past, the real and the fantastical. Is it Caledonia? Am I en route to Hogwarts? Have I stumbled upon Middle Earth?

One experiences a certain feeling of timelessness wandering through the hills and plains. I felt neither young nor old – just human. People had roamed the land thousands of years before me and people will continue to walk that land long after I’m gone. The land is a constant. Time might go on, people might come and go, but that land will always be the link connecting the past to the present and the present to the future. It’s a living, rustic, colorful example of everlasting beauty.

Experiencing this natural, and yet unnatural beauty, also helped me understand why authors, like JK Rowling, were so heavily inspired by the surrounding Scottish scenery. There’s no way NOT to be inspired. The stunning stone architecture, the black, looming mountains, and the rolling hills of green evoke a magic that bewitches the imagination. Add to this Scotland’s colorful past – an extraordinary mixture of Highland warriors, clan rivalries, murders, outlaws, and epic battles. One of the stories I found most entertaining to imagine in my head was that of a Highlands tribe of hulking men, painted blue from head to toe, who rather enjoyed charging into battle stark naked. I can only imagine the stunned faces of the invaders as they watched a whole tribe of blue, naked men with massive battleaxes running down the hills towards them. Indeed, real life is often stranger than fiction.

 Though we don’t always realize it, the stories of fantasy and magic in “other worlds” are often inspired and based upon the magic of real places, real situations, real people. Scotland is one of those places. The power of the mountains has humbled me. The vibrant flora has inflamed my mind. The icy breeze has pierced my soul. I’ve entered into a place of magic and communed with the land. That communion is eternal.

I’ll forget the names of the building and monuments. I’ll forget the stories. I’ll forget the people I was with. 

But I’ll never forget how I felt – that will never fade away. 

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To see my complete album of Scotland pictures, please follow this link:

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2209918899937.2109789.1606411982&type=1&l=fed320d9e2 

Magic in London (or, Kat Gets Sappy)

Magic appears in the most unexpected of places.

A park at dusk; an exhibit filled with vintage prints of Hollywood legends; an “Enchanted” palace – they exude a strangely wonderful magic that traps the mind and ensnares the senses. A magic that demands submission to a power not entirely of this world. 

Irrational. Unexplainable. Mysterious. Magic.

Until now, I don’t think I ever truly understood how magic could manifest itself. I grew up, like everybody else, with a healthy dose of Disney doctrine. Poisonous apples, singing animals, fairy godmothers – these represented the key elements of magical reality. And, let’s not forget the weak and ineffectual princesses that Disney seems to be so fond of.

Likewise, my early childhood was spent reveling in the fairy tales of the Grimms and others. It quickly set a precedent. From that point onward, I would always find myself fascinated with tales of the supernatural – from fairies to ghosts and everything in between.

As I grew older, I fell in love with Charmed (a 90s television series about three sister witches) and Harry Potter. But, these characters held their power exclusively. It was not for me to have. I could only hope to enjoy the experience of living vicariously through them.

So what is a girl supposed to do when she’s grown up with Disney princesses and wizards/witches with wands? Well. She’s got to try to make her own magic, and if she can’t, she can at least find it. And really, if you look back on all your most treasured life experiences, some of the best are generally the ones you weren’t expecting.

To be honest, I’m a stumbler. I don't go rushing out into the world looking for fun, magic, or anything. Unsurprisingly then, some of my most treasured moments in London so far have been of a very unexpected nature. When magic hits, it hits hard. Sometimes I wanted to skip and dance. Sometimes I imagined myself to be wearing period clothing – a true lady from the past. Other times, I furiously began taking pictures so that I might share my experience with the world. Crazy, but true. 

It all started with the parks – Regents Park, Hyde Park, Kensington Gardens. Walking along the gravel path, wind rushing through my hair, the sun shining on my back, I felt alive. Mind, body, spirit – all connected, all at peace. As I reveled in the sensory overload provided by the enchanting natural landscape, I couldn’t help but to also take delight in the many human interactions I saw. Children racing each other on bikes. An old couple holding hands as they strolled past the river. A young man stretched out on a flat block of marble, bathing his body in the heady warmth of the sun. Everything there – in every park – was pure, honest beauty. It was as though everything wonderful about life had come together in one place – a natural utopia.  

Then there was the Glamour of the Gods exhibit – where I looked upon the pinnacle of physical beauty. Here were men and women transformed into gods and goddesses. Yet, it was the exhibit’s unintentional representation of perfect love that I valued most. A celluloid romance – all love, only love – captured in a portrait. For the hour I was there, it was nice to believe that I, too, could have that perfect, unchanging love. A love eternally free of all complications. 

And finally, there was the Enchanted Palace, which brought to life all the magic and wonder of human creativity and invention. Fashion, performance, light works, and dazzling spectacle all combine to position the palace state rooms in an entirely new and thought-provoking way. My mission? Find the seven princesses trapped within the palace walls. Mary, Charlotte, Caroline, Victoria, Anne, Margaret, Diana – their voices called to me as I collected their woeful stories.

In Disney, the princesses always married the handsome prince; but, real princesses were betrothed to fat pigs who didn’t care for them beyond their usefulness as a reproductive machine. Or, there was Princess Charlotte, who was running towards love and dancing with death all her life (Yes, I got that from the included pamphlet!) Allowed to marry for love, she died shortly after in childbirth. Why is it that true love is so quickly separated while unions of hate and resentment are allowed to fester on indefinitely?

It’s so often through fantasy that we explore real issues of importance. As such, the exhibit did a marvelous job of constructing a world where fantasy and reality could meet side-by-side. While I’ll certainly attest to the visual magic of the exhibit, it was the stories of the seven princesses that really made the visit one of magic. I found their perseverance in the face of utter failure and their never-dying conviction of their inherent power and independence to be hugely inspirational. Disney preaches, it never inspires.

And there you have it - magic in London. Like all good things, though, such moments must end at some point – a point that usually coincides with my arrival at the tube station. A switch inside flips and I suddenly wake up, as if from a dream. Agitated, I get on the tube, and set back off into the crazy, bustling world of the Now. But the dream never dies. 

A Tale of Two Markets: Oxford St. and Camden

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times – a whole day of shopping, but oh, the money spent!

Feeling the limitations of my meager wardrobe, I decided it was time to go shopping for some British flair. I further justified the need for a shopping spree by telling myself that once I got it (shopping, that is) out of my system, I wouldn’t need to do any more for the rest of my time here. Yeah, right…

Quite fortunately, my delightful and completely non-morbid Jack the Ripper class is situated only a few blocks away from the most divine shopping street in London – Oxford Street. Thus, today after class, I hit the pavement, ready to find some great buys.

I just want you all to know, I did try to be a bargain shopper. I marched myself all the way down the street to Primark (a trendy value store, for those of you who don’t know) where I put all my energy into struggling through the frantic mob of people trying to shove as many articles of clothing as possible into their humongous shopping bags. I got so desperate I even tried walking with my elbows out on either side to discourage people from bumping into me. Unfortunately, I just don’t have the stamina to be a bargain shopper. My disposition is much more inclined towards slightly expensive stores, which by default, are less crowded. And so, happily resigned, I returned to the streets to find the next store.

Because Primark is so far down the street, I had to walk back quite a ways to get to where I wanted to be. Walking along Oxford St. is always an experience because of the sheer number of people out and about. It’s almost like a game, albeit a dangerous one. You have to dodge people and then force people to dodge you. The most thrilling part of the game is when you get to cross the street. If you don’t get run over by a bus, taxi, or bicyclist, then you have to watch out that you don’t get trampled by the mob of people stampeding towards you. While out today, I was immediately reminded of a conversation I had had with a friend last year. As a heavy metal fan, she likes to frequent concerts of the mosh-pit variety. One type of moshing, as she explained, was called the Wall of Death. 

Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about the Wall of Death: “In the Wall of Death, participants are directed away from the center of the standing area by a member of the band until a large, rectangular area is cleared, and, upon the band beginning the next song; the two sides perpendicular to the stage sprint at each other and collide in the middle.” Doesn’t sound too different from two masses of time-poor individuals trying to cross a small street at the same time, right? If you need a visual, I’ve kindly included one (sorry about the sound):

At any rate, I managed to survive the crowds. Barely. But when is fashion ever easy?

All in all, I bought two scarves (one from Accessorize, one from Zara), a pair of black boots from Zara, and a super cute pair of black heels from Debenhams (a department store). Look, I really needed shoes, ok? Don’t judge. 

I toyed with the idea about going to Topshop (again) but the day was getting on and I still wanted to check out…Camden Markets.

And what a juxtaposition to the snobby, flossy-glossy sheen of the Oxford high street. Camden is all personality – gritty, exotic, flamboyant. Instead of Prada and wicked high heels I found studs and a lot of black. It was a side of London that I was pleasantly surprised to uncover. 

Hidden throughout the narrow streets are just stalls and stalls bursting with unusual wares, vintage shops, and delicious food vendors. I myself stopped for a treat called Dutch Dunkers. A tri-brid (?) of donuts, waffles, and pancakes, these little guys were to die for. I had mine with syrup, butter, and powdered sugar. Jealous, much?

Aside from the stalls themselves, the actual scenery of Camden is quite beautiful. The Stables Market area had some interesting statuary and there was a nice view of the Regent’s Canal from several bridges. Unfortunately, unaware of how amazing this place would be, I’d only given myself a few hours to explore (and left my good camera at home!), which meant that I only got to see a very small fraction of what the Camden area has to offer. I have no doubt that I’ll be returning to Camden very soon to finish exploring this beautifully unique section of London.

A Night at Piccadilly Circus

Tis a surreal experience to rush out of your home late at night and then return early the next morning (9 am to be exact) – without sleep. As you stumble across the disarray of rejected clothing, jewelry, and shoes, you wonder how you made such a substantive mess in the thirty minutes it took you to get ready. You walk into the bathroom, switch on the light, and --- sigh. Your hair is wild, your makeup has melted off, and your eyes are unpleasantly bloodshot. Not caring, you quickly clean up, shut off the lights, and throw yourself into bed where you promptly fall asleep. 

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It all started late Saturday evening when I was supposed to meet my friends outside the Piccadilly Circus Tube Station. Due to various circumstances (forgotten IDs, essential wardrobe changes, etc.), I ended up waiting outside the tube station for almost an hour. Though I was by myself, I certainly wasn’t alone. Teeming throngs of people bustled past me incessantly as they sought out their late-night location of choice. Pubs, theatres, bars, clubs – Piccadilly has it all. Then there were the people looking like a flock of roosting pigeons tightly perched together around the base of the Eros statue, which marks the center of Piccadilly circus. 

Piccadilly Circus. Courtesy of INCKX Photography. 

 While contently alternating my gaze between the assortment of individuals passing in front of me and the large video advertisements across the street, I was interrupted with a tap to the elbow. I turn and see that the two guys who’d been talking a little ways from me had now approached me. Greaaaaat. I could only imagine the lovely conversation that was to arise from this interaction. (And before anybody starts to get worried about two random guys approaching me outside the tube station…don’t be. I’d managed - yet again - to unwittingly bewitch two dorky, unattractive, and slightly obnoxious males. Harsh, but true). 

So now, things start to get interesting. I can’t really remember their names, but they did share with me who they thought their celebrity look-alikes were…which is how I will refer to them here…. “Jay-Z” and “Michael Jackson.” I have to admit, I’m laughing as I type this because, of course, neither one of them looked even the tiniest bit like Jay-Z or Michael Jackson. I mean for goodness sake, “MJ” was an Indian man!

They explain to me that they have been having a “debate” (yeah, right) on some points of interest relating to women that they would like me to clear up for them. The first question related to the matter of the scars on Jay-Z's arms. He was convinced that women would reject him at first glance because he had scars, which he proceeded to show me. Let me tell you, you could barely see anything. If you’re going to use a scar question as your opener, at least have something legit to show off. Seriously.

At this point, they’ve figured out that I’m American and are further enthralled by this. They both start coming up with inane questions to get “a woman’s opinion” on – aka to keep talking to me. Ugh.

MJ: “So, say I spot a beautiful woman on the street. I follow her and then go up to her, introduce myself, and tell her something about how her beauty has caught my eye. Is that creepy?” 

(No, not at all. Stalking somebody on the street? Psh, sooo not creepy).

JZ: “Say I was on the tube during rush hour and I was squished up next to a hot girl. How would she respond if I started hitting on her?"

(Well, as everybody enjoys being cramped like a sardine in a can right after a long work day, I’m sure she’d be hard hit with your charm and wit).

MJ: “What do you dislike about Jay-Z’s outfit? Tell me one thing you think he should change.”

(Yikes! Such an awkward question…. I had to blow that one off).

JZ: “May I just point out, that your smile is amazing. It’s perfect…like an angel’s smile."

(I vomited a little in my mouth).

MJ: “So, you have to tell me. How many guys come up to you throughout the course of the day? Ok, wait, just the club. When you go out to the club, how many guys come and hit on you?”

"Umm, I don’t go out much? Really, it's not that many."

(This was me not wanting to admit that the average number of guys coming up to me is between -2 and 0. Unless of course it’s “special” individuals like these two gents).

MJ: “Ok, so like 10-15 guys? Would you say that’s correct?”

(Uhhh….. *quickly checks my phone, hoping that my friends are close*).

Anyway, this probably continued for about half an hour until I saw my friends walk out of the tube station. Thank God. I think my voice sounded more than a little desperate when I called out their names. It’s not that I felt unsafe or anything, I was just annoyed (though slightly amused) and wanted MJ and Jay-Z to leave me alone. I still can’t figure out why I repel all the genuinely attractive males (except Chad) and attract all the weirdos. My mom and I joke that it’s an inherited trait, but seriously, what is the reason?! I’m never doing anything….they just find me. It's like I have an invisible beacon that calls them to me. If somebody could explain this phenomena, I’d be greatly interested in hearing what you have to say. 

And before I move on with my story, I just want to comment on how ironic it is that they were asking ME for advice on women. I am not your average American girl. Things that most girls would go for, I wouldn’t. I’m old-fashioned. I have weird interests and I’m paranoid. For the first ten minutes of our conversation, I was trying to figure out what their angle was…until I realized they just wanted to talk to me. Blegh.

Thinking of ulterior motives though, I was just reminded of something else they said. They asked me if I was a honeybait (it was honey something...I can't remember exactly what they said) - you know, those women that lure unsuspecting men into dark alleyways where a gang of dudes is waiting to rob them or worse? Yeahhh…. an obnoxious, yet interesting conversation.

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Ok, so I’m united with my friends, we’re ready to go. We finally find a bar+club called Verve, which ended up being a really cool place! The music was amazing – probably some of the best music I’ve heard at a club. You just can’t go wrong with classics like  “What is Love,” INXS’ “Need You Tonight,” and “Billie Jean.” Overall, I found that British clubs are more fun than their American counterparts. Instead of worrying about some creeper dude sneaking up behind me, I could just focus on dancing around and having fun with my friends. There wasn’t any grinding or girl-on-girl skank action – just good, clean fun. Seriously, you could be dancing like this and nobody would care. They might judge you a little, but they’d definitely let you keep dancing.

Because I was nervous about traveling all the way back to Harrow - alone - in the middle of the night, I had arranged to stay at my friends’ campus – Queen Mary – until the tube stations opened again in the morning, which for a Sunday, ended up being 7am. Riding the night bus to their campus was also a unique experience. It seemed that every time the bus stopped, somebody would try to hop on through the middle door. Now, everybody – even I, the tourist – knows that you’re supposed to enter at the front of the bus so that you can either swipe your Oyster travel card or buy a bus ticket. And yet, at every stop, there was “that person” who had to get yelled at by the bus driver – and kicked off - for trying to get on the bus without paying.

At one particular stop, we encountered a very persistent gentleman. As expected, the bus driver saw him and told him to get off. The man refused to budge. So, to make his point clear, the bus driver completely shut off the bus engine.

Now, everybody in this packed London night bus is just glaring at the dude. It’s 3 in the morning. Everybody wants to get home. I was personally amused at how quickly people’s primal instincts take over in situations like this.  Several people in the bus (including the sweet-looking old man behind me) started yelling for somebody to push the offender off the bus! The offender then declared that he can’t believe that we're so base as to suggest throwing him off a bus, and because of this public insult, won’t leave the bus on a matter of principle. Oh my goodness…

When the guy finally noticed that certain individuals might start to do more than just push him off the bus, he finally left and we were free to continue on to our destination.

Once at Queen Mary’s, I spent a good two and a half hours lying on my friend’s floor waiting for the tube to reopen. Around 7, I roused myself and walked to the nearest tube station only to find out that I’d have to wait another 15 minutes before the train would actually arrive. I also found out that all of the tube stops near my school were shut off for maintenance work, which meant I was going to have to take a replacement bus. At this point, I was tired, dishelveled, hungry, and highly annoyed. And of course, it seemed as though there were delays the entire two hours it took me to get back to the Harrow Campus.

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And thus, we’ve come full circle. I slept for three hours and then got up again to shower, get dressed, and make the long commute back into Central London for London Fashion Weekend. (Check back for a dedicated fashion post in the future!)

Though my night was definitely tame in comparison to others’, it was a night I won't soon forget. Part of experiencing a culture is interacting with the very people who create and influence that culture. Though it seems like I've only been dealing with the nuts so far, I'm bound to encounter a normal person at some point over the next three months. But hell, it's the weirdos that make for the most interesting stories. At least I have that. 

Some English Romance

Whether from the smog floating over the city skyline or the cloud of cigarette smoke that seems to perpetually envelop me, my allergies have been a bit persnickety lately. I also seem to have been grinding my teeth while sleeping these past two nights, which has caused massive pain to shoot up through my jaws and into my forehead. Man oh man, have I been hitting the Benadryl, Motrin, and Airborne. Thank God for over-the-counter drugs. So, because I’ve been feeling slightly under the weather (in more ways than one, it seems) these past few days, I decided it was high time for a solid dose of good cinema.

Luckily, I was already aware of yet another of Netflix’s flaws – the inability to stream video outside the United States - prior to my prescription for medicinal cinema. After scouring the internet, I found that iTunes was going to be the most reliable (and legal) way to access television and film. (Though, apparently, you can’t rent television episodes anymore). For me, the iTunes store is an overly expensive example of what Netflix’s instant viewing model could and should be like. Though steeply priced at $3.99 a pop for regular movie rentals, the selection was varied and up-to-date. I did appreciate the 99c movie rental option. Tearing myself away from the great deal, I searched instead for a film that would complement my London setting, which led me to…… Jane Eyre (2011).

And what a perfect choice it was! Movies and books like Jane Eyre are exactly the reason why I am studying in England right now. The camera pans over the vast and flawless countryside get me every time. I love the delicate and beautiful gowns. I’m enchanted by the charming Englishmen. The public propriety juxtaposed with those fateful stolen glances sets me on the edge of my seat. Why is he so infuriating? How will he win her affection? Who or what will stand in their way? Even if I know the story, these questions still take hold of me as I sit in suspense, waiting for the (usually) happy ending. Nothing gets better than romance in the English countryside.

Fortunately and unfortunately, I’ll never get to see this England of old. For one, it’s a constructed world. And two, if I could actually get into book/movie reality, I’d probably hate it anyway. Bad hygiene and absolutely no rights for women…doesn’t really sound like a good match for me. Luckily, I get the best of both worlds. I get to read/watch these amazing and inspirational stories which confront the social/gender issues of the time amidst the backdrop of one heck of a love story. (Cheers goes to you, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, etc.). And, I also get to experience modern England in all its glory. Though I haven’t been able to see much of the countryside yet, it will be an interesting comparison to see how my perception of modern England relates to my perception of romantic England.

Indeed, today, I had an unexpected blast of romantic England as we were strolling through the market stalls of Covent Garden. Drifting through the air, I heard a sweet melody – a woman singing O Mio Babbino Caro. Walking in the chilly air, wind rushing through my hair, surrounded by living energy – such a brief, beautiful, personal moment. And it was in that moment that my idealized England and the real England collided. When they will collide again, I don’t know. I can only hope that they do. 

Being Antisocial

I have to admit, I’m feeling slightly (well, more than slightly) antisocial as I sit, alone, in my room and type this blog post. I hear voices and some sick beats pumping out from down the hall, and yet, I just don’t feel like going out there. While everybody has been beyond nice, I haven’t really felt like I fit in yet. Somehow, friend groups have already been established, leaving us thick Americans to fend for ourselves. Granted, my flat mates have been really friendly – probably more friendly, open, and non-awkward upon first meeting than what I experienced back at home my freshman year. They have no qualms about making themselves at home. The first night we were all here, one of my flat mates, Poppy, was already walking around the kitchen barefoot and Ethan, another flat mate, was passing out beers for us all to drink.

Despite this openness, I still feel shut out from their world. Young Britain is essentially enveloped in a perpetual party culture. Even Ethan agreed that overdrinking was a problem in the country (as he downed his 10+ beers. I’m not joking. And this was before his jagerbomb and whatever else he drank later). To illustrate my point, there was a raging party going on all last night that practically consumed the entire residential area. Who parties on their first night at college? I definitely didn’t. I was in bed and homesick.

So, I’ve already got the party thing going against me since I don’t like to party that much and to top it off, I’m not really that big on the music scene, which is super important over here. The clubs are also hot. Probably because there’s a heavy drug culture tied into the music scene. I suppose those two are always linked though. From listening to conversations, I’ve learned that it’s popular to take what (I guess) is the equivalent of acid or whatever people take nowadays to “roll” while they jam out to their dubstep. Oh, and everybody – and I mean, EVERYBODY – smokes over here! The only difference I’ve noticed is that a lot of young people choose to roll their own cigarettes instead of buying cigarette packages. 

I don’t judge. I just can’t relate. I want to hang out with non-Americans but I feel like I can’t without getting sucked into the party scene. I so desperately want a British friend to give me the inside scoop and hang out with me, but my flat mates have only talked about hitting up clubs. My hope was renewed though when a guy on our flat, James, moved in. He seems nice and, at one point, was talking about how he's a homebody. I’m probably going to try to force him into being my friend. Hopefully, his interest in the American doesn’t fade. It seems that when we (my friends from Arcadia and I) initially meets Brits, they are intrigued, but eventually lose interest after a while. I guess the Brits are not into Americans as much as I thought they would be.

I guess all of this is just part of me acclimating to life in London. I’ve been having a fantastic time, but after leaving my friends from Orientation, I’m having some doubts about how my stay at Harrow will work out. Deep down, I know it will work out. I’m just going to have to get over my awkwardness, open the door, and venture out even though it’s so, so hard for me to do. Wish me luck. 

Babies, Twilight, and Customs. Oh my!

*Note: This was written on 9/14, but due to lack of internet, could not be posted until now*

Today marked my epic journey across the pond and for once, I actually had some unusual and (personally funny) encounters. Thus begins the airplane saga:

After nearly dropping the backpack of doom on my head, I situated myself in my seat, strapped the belt buckle over my lap, and prepared myself for the next nine hours of claustrophobia and extreme dehydration. Having the right aisle seat, I stealithily looked to my left to see what kind of creeper I’d have sitting next to me. Luckily (or so I thought) I was seated next to an older gentleman and his wife. Thinking that the trip would go smoothly from there, I eased back and waited for take off.

Then dinner rolled around. The man next to me had to start being a nosy josy (?) about why I was going to London. Then, when I told him I’d be studying abroad, I unwittingly dragged myself into a whole new conversation (which sporadically continued for the duration of the flight) about what I would be studying in London, what school would I be attending, how did I decide to study abroad, where was my home school, what was my major, what did I want to do with such major, what extra-curricular activities did I have, how diverse was Trinity’s population, and so on and so on. I just never know how to respond when people keep bugging me like that. I was getting to the point where I was about to set myself on fire (if you don’t get the joke, watch Airplane). I’m really just one of those people who don’t like to talk to anybody while flying. I’m perfectly fine spending the flight entirely immersed in my own thoughts. My short answers eventually conveyed to him that I wasn’t in the best mood for talking. Hmm, I wonder why?

Let’s start with the fact that I could not and did not go to sleep. Despite my best efforts, operation sleep failed miserably. Several factors contributed to this. First, the lovely conversationalist to my left decided that he was going to be an insomniac and keep his blindingly bright seat light on the entire trip. Said seat light was totally shining in my face. And keeping me awake. Then, I kept hearing this strange noise. I barely open my eyes and look over at my geriatic friend only to find that he is plucking his pen, bookmark, or Lord knows what over and over and over. Oh, and did I mention he had to keep snorting his nose? Then, two aisles ahead of me, I had two screaming children who literally had fits the entire trip to London.  Two aisles behind me and to the right, I had a perpetual cougher. And, throughout the entire evening, someone had to keep opening the storage bin that was oh-so-conveniently right above my head. I’m pretty sure I got punched in the face with someone’s beer gut. What really set me off though is that I opened my eyes, aggravated that I can’t even get an hour’s worth of sleep, and see that the girl in the row ahead of me had the entire 3-seat row to herself and was soundly asleep. Life is cruel.

The one thing keeping me going though was the black gangsta-looking guy (I think now he was maybe Air Force) intently watching both Twilight and New Moon. Seriously, this guy needed to see how everything was going to play out because he had New Moon running until after the plane had landed. What cracked me up, besides this bad-ass guy watching the Twilight saga, was the fact that he kept sneaking looks over his shoulder at me almost as if to see if I had noticed what he was watching. And if I had, was I judging? Strange a combination as it was, I guess Twilight was his guilty pleasure. I approve. 

Now we’re going to fast forward to the plane landing. I managed to schalump the backpack of doom on my back and then headed on to customs. Apparently, students have to fill out some extra sheet of paper (it had no new information on it) before they can be processed. I grab my little sheet and head over to the wall, completely out of the way of everything. Then, as usual, somebody ends up needing to stand in the exact spot I am occupying. This need was felt by a woman and her two children. The children were screaming (mind you, this is right next to me) and were also running into me while the mother did nothing. Finally, they left. Then, waiting in the student line, I had a lovely couple with their daughter push themselves ahead of me in line. Is it really surprisingly that I enjoy being alone…? ;)

Though I made it through customs smoothly, the ultimate battle was in dragging my unseemly heavy bags all around the airport trying to find Terminal 3. By the time I had actually reached the terminal, I could barely speak, my arms felt like they were about to fall off, and I was sweating bullets. But you know what? I ended up being one of the people with the least amount of luggage! Can you believe it?! I can’t! Other girls had brought either 4 medium-small bags or two gigantic, I’m talking heavy-duty, suitcases in addition to a carry-on. Unsurprisingly, they all had problems moving the luggage.

Lastly, I’d like to end this blog with something creepy that seems to be happening to me. There are waaay too many people that look like somebody else. I’m temporarily attributing this unrest to my lack of sleep….

I also want to note that we got assigned roommates for the 3 nights we’re here and I don’t even know my roommate’s name or what her face looks like. I suspect her personality might be tolerable since she is apparently reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. Now she’s just going to creepily come in while I’m sleeping. Great. 


*9/17: My roommate was super nice and not sketchy!!*