The Hostel American's Excursion Part III (In Brussels, not in Bruges)

Well, I'm back.

Okay, it's been a long time, and an eventful time, which I haven't been recording. For this I apologize. I promise I'll do my best to recap what's been up here, before I leave...on Saturday. Which is incredibly soon.

I'll even include a poignant reflection on the Extraordinary Experience. You'll cry. It'll be beautiful.

But for now, where did I leave off? Ah, yes...Centraal Station, ready to go to Brussels.

I had such plans for Belgium! I was going to catch a train to Bruges for my first night and have a shootout in a marketplace. (Well, I was going to see the clocktower, anyway) I was going to talk in an Irish accent and compare the place to a fairytale and drink normal beer because I'm a normal person. And then I was going to go to Brussels.

By the way, if you haven't seen In Bruges, it's a fabulous film. About assassins. In Bruges.

Okay, so, anyway, that didn't work out. It didn't work out because when I arrived at Centraal Station, and asked the Station Information Station where my train to Belgium was, they told me that there were absolutely no trains going to Belgium. None. Rail strike. Thank you.

When the others arrived, I told them the bad news, and we waited in a Ben and Jerry's with internet access, while WunderVaughn (he always seems to have the answers, save the day, be the best- it's most obnoxious) looked up how we could possibly get to Brussels without the aide of a train. WunderVaughn went to the ticket office on the Damrak, while we three girls sat awkwardly, hungover (them), and read. He came back to tell us that if we act fast and get a train to Amstel Station, from there we might be able to join a bus headed to Brussels. We did so. It was all very stressful, uncomfortable, and exhausting.

I must say though, despite everything, I was rather glad that MFAs (specifically WunderVaughn) were with me that day, because I would have been at a total loss. I would have spent another night in Amsterdam, and spent a fortune getting another train ticket to spend one night in Brussels, only to catch an early plane the next morning. I shudder to think...

And so we arrived in Brussels, late in the evening. We walked from the station (through a neighborhood described as "dangerous"...thanks, Bus Driver!) to the hostel where we were apparently all staying. This was a coincidence, but not entirely unpleasant. I joined them in a private 4-person room, went out to dinner with them, and stayed back in a quiet, empty room (a nice change of pace) when they went out drinking.

The hostel was nice. While High Street Hostel in Edinburgh had two lounges, and St. Christopher's in Amsterdam had a noisy, social bar, the 2Go4 Quality had a lobby, complete with computers with free internet access- that was closed from 10 p.m. to 9 p.m. Most inconvenient. But it was clean, efficient, friendly, and helpful. I only wish I had gotten to meet more people, besides that chatty Brazilian guy and the Scotsman who invited us to dinner. I even had to decline that because of MFAs. Lame.

So, the next morning I woke up early, put on my hat (an awesome one that I bought in Amsterdam) and set out to do the best thing you could possibly do in Brussels: The Rene Magritte Museum.

I love Magritte. I always have. For those of you who are art-ignorant, Magritte was a Belgian surrealist known for his paintings that employ clever wordplay, puzzling imagery, and symbols. His most famous works are "Son of Man" (man in a bowler hat, with an apple blocking his face, you know?) and "La Trahison des Images" ("Ceci n'est pas une pipe" meaning "This is not a pipe" under a picture of a pipe...funny, right?) The museum was very impressive, new, and comprehensive, charting the development of his career from his early impressionist phase straight into the surrealism that came to define his role in art history. Unfortunately, I did not spring for the 6 euro audioguide, which was a big mistake, since I don't speak French, and Magritte is one artist that definitely improves when you know the whole story behind the works. Still, I did my best, and there were some great pieces to analyze, including the very beautiful "Le Retour," (pictured) one of my favorites, and "L'Empire des lumières," which is my ichat background.

After the Magritte museum, I walked around the Musées Royaux de Bruxelles, which had some pretty cool stuff. I got lost going back to the hostel, which was exactly my plan. I sought out the statue of the little man peeing (charmingly called "Manneken Pis," Dutch for "little man peeing"), the grand palace, the Koningstraat and Rue Royale, and the Cathedral. And then I found out that I was broke, so I went back to the Hostel. After meeting the Brazilian guy and the Scottish guy, I went out to dinner with MFAs again, and then we rented a movie (The Royal Tenenbaums) and they hid a wig in my bed.

I left the next morning for the airport.

Flying over London, I could see the Thames, and all the famous Thames landmarks, including St. Paul's (I think, anyway), Tower Bridge, Big Ben, the Eye, and Houses of Parliament. These things made me very happy, and I was at that moment very happy to be back on my little island. Especially since the roommates were all still travelling. Heh.

I had a good time on the excursion. It was fun to meet so many people, and reaffirm my own sociability, since I'm such a hermit back at the school.

Interesting side note- they all just got back from the union, and from what I hear, they're way drunk. What a life.

Okay, back to the self-important reflection. I enjoyed the cities, Edinburgh especially, and despite the reaction I've gotten from most people when I say I went to Brussels ("Really? Gross. Brussels is the worst.") I did like it there, as well, with its Euro-hodgepodginess and the huge number of people that asked me for directions in French (I look European! That's the dream!) And with the exception of the snooty woman at the awesome hat shop, and the mean train station attendant, everyone was pretty friendly and not at all "uppity." Still, I would have liked to have seen Bruges. Next time, maybe.

Next time I'll get to see Bruges instead of Brussels, and Berlin instead of Munich. And I'll have better people to accompany me. And I won't have to worry about papers or budgets (so much...okay, maybe more...). But still, it was definitely a worthwhile adventure.

Also, I told KC I'd mention it...so...the two names I have picked out for any potential sons are Wallace and Edmund ("Ned"). Thoughts? Didn't think so. Carry on.

Next up...and very soon...I'll talk about my Mom and Gus (not Joe) coming to visit me with a gang of lawyers, judges, and retired radio personalities! London can be a very fun city when you're a suddenly a tourist again, and Mom is footing the bill. After that, I'll recount my last couple weeks here, including papers, Christmas shopping, Mikey, and packing...ugh, packing.

But for now, I must sleep. Tomorrow I have my last class here ever...and then I'm going to Notting Hill. Hooray! And I promise to return soon!

The Hostel American's Excursion Part II (Amsterdam)

Right. Soldiering on (instead of writing my Language and the Media paper...but there's plenty of time for that.) Let's get right into the written notes from my second night in Amsterdam. Transcribing below:

02/11/09 (St. Christopher's Hostel)-

Ah, Amsterdam. I am enjoying myself here, too. Hostels really do agree with my travel sensibilities. They're the best. I can be social without being stupid or vulnerable. For example, last night, I went to dinner with two (out of five total) hostelroommates. Indonesian food. Very good, though perhaps not entirely politically correct. What with the colonization and all. What would Multatuli say? [Okay, obviously, I added that Multatuli bit. I did not know who he was at this point. But you don't either!]

After dinner, I passed on a pub crawl with creepy Mike (Mark? Mork?) and his friends, went back to the hostel, read in my room for a bit, went out to use the internet for an hour and charge electronics, then went back to the room to read some more. And then I slept. And that, friends, was my first night in Amsterdam. Granted, I arrived only just in time for dinner, and was a bit tired all day. And I still had three more nights.

So the hostel in Edinburgh was right in the middle of the Old Town, and had a very relaxed, comfortable vibe for its weary travelers. St. Christopher's Hostel is a bit different. While also quite centrally located (in what I would call the "pink light district," just off the Damrak and 5 minutes from Centraal Station) the lobby area is basically naught but a bar. There are no quiet places to sit with your book or journal if your constantly sleeping hostelroommmates have already turned out the light. This puts me at a slight disadvantage, considering my nocturnal travel habits, but no matter. I'm making friends with the drunk guys who think that they can approach the mousy girl writing all by herself.

Just now, in fact, I've been approached by two Canadians, Joel and John. We had a delightful conversation about what to see and do and drink (their contribution) in lovely Amsterdam, the general differences between our respective countries of origin, and the motivations of our travel. The Canadians seemed very impressed by my general solo travel philosophy, that is that I'm not here to make any bad decisions or put myself in compromising situations. I'm here for art, culture, and tulips. Not weed. Or sex. Or even drink, really. They admitted that their intentions are quite the opposite. But still we were friends! Ladies and gentlemen, hostels!

So. Catching up- today. I slept in- which was awesome. I've been sleeping a lot, to be sure, but I usually have to wake up early either to catch a tour, a train, or a plane, and sometimes I simply have to make the most of a short time in a new, unfamiliar city. It was nice, though, to sleep in until 11:00 and meet up for the 1:15 Free Tour (just like the one in Edinburgh!) instead of the 11:15. I am on vacation, after all.

The tour was great, led this time by an Australian ex-pat named Amy. "You're in Amy's Amsterdam, now, bitches!" she said. Okay, she didn't call us "bitches" but it seems to fit. Just like Canadian Kate of Edinburgh (wow, the alliterations) she was passionate enough about her adopted home to make up for the fact that she's not actually an Amsterdaminian (?) She seemed pleasantly surprised by her own fascination with the history of the city- like the common backpackers' job had actually managed to genuinely excite her. I've found this an interesting but common phenomenon among tour guides in general. Interesting, since I've always found history, personal or otherwise, to be the only real reason to visit any city, especially in Europe ("where the history comes from," Eddie Izzard tells us.) Okay, maybe art, too. Anyway, I find it difficult to understand that others don't feel this way. Must be all the pot.

Anyway, one of my friendlier, awake hostelroommates- I cannot for the life of me remember his name, thought someone introduced him to someone else here at the bar not an hour ago, and it's a guy's name that I like- joined me and together we sought out the "pick-up point," and failing that, the "starting point" in Dam Square. We were just in time to join Amy's tour- and it must have been fate, because there was a couple from Atlanta decked out in Georgia Tech hoodies and hats, and a Northeastern grad. Aw.

We started out in Dam Square, went through the red light district with its tax-paying hookers, crossed bridge after bridge over canal after canal, past "coffeeshop" after "coffeeshop," stopped for lunch, and finally ended up in front of the Anne Frank House, where Amy, genuinely moved, told us the story of both Anne Frank, and the February 25, 1941 strike and protest against the deportation of Dutch Jews. It was a very good tour, especially considering all of Amsterdam's various historical and contemporary places of interest. And Amy really did seem to love Amsterdam. So. I tipped well.

From there, I joined Russian Svetlana from San Francisco (via Russia) on the Museum Cruise line of the Amsterdam canal circuit. It was very nice, and extremely pretty. We casually chatted as our captain navigated through the various canals, past the Hermitage Amsterdam, the Museum of Music, and the Nemo. And! The world's largest floating Chinese Restaurant. Points of interest indeed! It was a perfectly lovely way to see the city, and Svetlana proved excellent company. She even promised to send me some pictures she took after my camera died (it's utterly useless!) [Haven't received anything yet, actually...but whatever.] After we docked at Centraal, she invited me to venture into the Red Light District, deciding that it would be best to see it with company, and we might as well take the advantage of the opportunity. The real Red Light District is as seedy and grossly fascinating as you would expect. I find it difficult to avoid eye-contact with the prostitutes who pose and gyrate in their rent-paid-for windows. I can't decide if I should feel sorry for them, or empowered by their sexual liberation, or simply repulsed by the whole situation. I suppose I should further research their general quality of life- though I did learn today that pimping is illegal, so that probably helps. Also in the Red Light District, one can find novelty sex shops and many, many opportunities to buy hard drugs. The pot-selling coffeeshops are interesting destinations, too. I even saw the one where Robbie Coltrane, George Clooney, and Matt Damon quote "Kashmir" in Ocean's 12 (Amy didn't mention Robbie Coltrane when she identified it- come on! He's Hagrid! He's James Bond's Russian Criminal Contact I Can't Remember the Name Of! He's Dr. Johnson!) Anyway, as stated, I don't think I'm here for pot. Still, it's an interesting subcultural element. I think I'll leave it all for Canadian Joel and John, though.
-

Well, there ends my up-to-the minute (or night, anyway) journal transcriptions. So, from now on, you're getting plain, old Lauren's London-bound memory. I think I've got a pretty good command of facts though, never fear.

Anyway, that night, as mentioned, I made friends with those Canadians, who left me, before I started writing about them, for pot, naturally. The hostelroommates were all sleeping when I went to my room to read (seriously...I didn't see one of them leave his bed!) and so I went back to the bar and read amongst the drunks. I was approached again, this time by a chatty Australian named Pras, who saw me earlier with Joel and John, and naturally assumed that I was Canadian, too. When I corrected this, he was excessively penitent, as if confusing those two nationalities was the absolute height of racism. He was very drunk, too. Actually, I saw him again the next night, and we actually became something like friends. Good guy, Pras. I took a shot for him, too (my only liquor in Amsterdam.)



The next morning I woke up early and walked all the way down the Damrak to the Van Gogh museum and Rijksmuseum. It was a most pleasant little jaunt. I got lost a few times, which suited me just fine, since it was a nice, cloudy day, and it allowed me to see more of the city. The Van Gogh museum was very cool, but only just worth the 16 euro I paid. In light of that, I decided against the 11 euro for the Rijksmuseum, which I sort of regret now. I did look through the guide book in the gift shop and decided that there just wasn't enough must-see works to merit a visit. I did also buy a too-expensive hat that day (I would soon buy a too-expensive skirt and promptly run out of money. Damn you, Europe!) so the sacrifice was a noble one. And, really, I'm not all that into Dutch art. But! The Van Gogh museum was way cool, showcasing his letter-sketches, and the Potato Eaters. I was glad I saw that.

On my way back I got caught in the rain, and had some waffles in a little restaurant near the "I AMSTERDAM" statue, and after finally finding my way back to the hostel and eating 25% off bar food, I heard from MFAs, who had arrived the night before and invited me to meet up with them in a "coffeeshop" in the Red Light District. Pras of the night before offered to escort me through the sketch zone, though he didn't go inside, which was a shame. I kind of wanted to show those jerks that I was capable of making friends. Oh well. They were all high, anyway.

The next day, I trekked again down the Damrak to the Anne Frank House. It was very cool, and very interesting, but also crowded by disrespectful and unpleasant (is there any other kind- apart from Martha?) schoolchildren. The use of the texts of her diaries was very cool, almost as if Anne was telling the story herself, and there were a number of very informative videos that featured interviews with the now aged people who knew her. Like Dachau, it can't exactly be described adequately here, so if you get a chance to see it, do so.

As I was leaving the Anne Frank House, I saw MFAs in line to get in (the night before, Sarah told me that they were going early to avoid the lines, and I said "Oh, when I was there before, the lines weren't so bad." "The concierge at the hotel told me we need to get there early." "Okay, but I don't think it will be that bad." "Well, we're still going early!" So...ha.) Anyway, they invited me to dinner with them after they finished at the House, so while they went through, I walked around the neighboring canals, vaguely looking for a Waterstone's I remembered seeing somewhere around there from the Free Tour.

And then we went to Hard Rock Café. Again. I can't really say why I tagged along. I did actually have kind of a nice time. Mike, strangely enough, out of the group, was nicest to me. Weird. Anyway, the five of us caught up on our separate experiences, and when they stayed behind to get further and more expensively drunk, I left, returned to St. Christophers, and went with Pras and his friend to an Australian bar, Coco's Cave ("Warm beer and lousy food.") Good times. When I got back, I charged my electronics, and a fellow traveler told me that there was a rail strike on in Belgium the next day (you know, when I was leaving. For Belgium.) I went to bed determined not to worry.

I was very wrong. But we'll get to that tomorrow!

The Hostel American's Excursion Part I (Edinburgh)

Hello all! I just got back from my excursion on the continent...

Ha. Actually I've been back for a while. A week or so. But I did journal it while it was happening, for the most part. Anyway, the trip precipitated a lot of thoughts, so I've been kind of intimidated by the mere thought of compiling everything. Not bad, lonely, "I've-been-abandoned" thoughts, mind you...I actually had an excellent time. But I was solo, and I didn't do much crazy partying after hours (What? You? No way!) so there was a lot of time to read and think.

Before we get started, on a related note, Sense and Sensibility is a great book. I was inspired to read it again after seeing the latest Andrew Davies miniseries. It really helps that they casted a fox to play Edward. And Dominic Cooper, despite my doubts, plays a pretty good Willoughby. He is a History Boy, after all...and he lives with Smithy. Which reminds me...I need to find that flat!

Okay. So, here's what I have written, it might require multiple posts. Actually, let's run with that. Here's what I have written...for Edinburgh, Scotland:

30/10/09 (The train to Edinburgh)-

On my way to Scotland now- started out fairly early this morning to catch my 8:00 train (I asked for 8:30!) and made every possible dumb mistake. Fortunately, I actually stared out very early, so I made it with plenty of time. And then it was late, anyway. Awesome.

I am glad to have purchased this soundtrack to Adventureland (bummer movie, but great music.) Lou Reed's "Satellite of Love" is on its way out...and I do love David Bowie's backing vocals. And now begins, that kook's own "Modern Love," one of the tracks for which I bought this. Such a fun song. And it's giving me some dance-y self-confidence in my own funness, which is important, as I'm about to head out on a foreign and basically solo adventure.

It is indeed a very trying thing (maybe rewarding too?) to be a complicated introvert. Expensive, too, but what's to be done? My days of wondering what the hell is wrong with me and wishing desperately for a "crowd" are over(ish.) Though occasionally beset by self-doubt (who isn't?) I'm actually quite fine with who I am. The other flatmates feel sorry for me, I can tell. They treat me like a sick child. Well, they can misunderstand me as much as they choose. I'll misunderstand those alcoholics right back! Alternatively, I could just not care.

So I won't. I am actually quite excited about this journey. Paris was a slightly difficult testing-of-the-waters, but I'm confident that I can rally here. They do speak English in Scotland, right? Something like, anyway. Also, I hope that hostels will provide some distractions. That was the main problem in Paris. One can only watch so much BBC World News.

On a new and wonderful note, I'm completely fascinated by the family sitting next to me on this train. The father's accent indicates a Northern English upbringing, while the mother and the kids (Martha, 8? and Finn, 4?) are from the South (Surreyish, I mean, not Alabama.) There's also Martha's doll, Annabelle. I think she's from Kent. Anyway, Martha just spoke on the phone to her grandmother, whom they are visiting in Yorkshire, to inform them of the delay (there's a delay- it's ridiculous) here at St. Neots Station:

"Hello gran! There's a delay here. They don't know when we'll move again. Daddy's quite upset. Oh, I don't know. Yes. I am excited to see you as well. Goodbye, then! We're on our way!"

Also, earlier she called Annabelle "darling," and told her father that "mummy is so lovely and kind." This is how my children will talk! I don't care if they're calling me or a warthog "lovely and kind," but it will absolutely be used with frequency. Quite seriously, I want to belong to this family. I don't even mind grumpy little Finn.

Ugh. I do hope there's no danger of having to terminate here, as Mr. British Family believes. That would be most inconvenient, not to mention disheartening. It's rather critical that this already maligned journey not kill my tentative Independent Spirit. If it weren't for this family, I'd have gone mad already. ("Mummy, could you draw me a hippo again, please?") Though, it does make me miss Joe a bit. He'd really get a kick out of this family...especially after "Oh my God! It's completely broken!" event from the cruise.

Oh, we're moving again! Excellent. Slow lines, but moving. Perhaps I'll make it to Edinburgh, after all. Or Petersbourogh, anyway. That's the next stop. Anyway, time to read.

[Here, I read, apparently...and probably slept...until...Yorkshire?]

Ah, there goes Yorkshire, and Durham, specifically. It's absolutely beautiful. I remember going to Durham Cathedral in 10th grade. It's rather magnificent, but it has nothing on the atmospheric scenery of the sea, the moors, the sky. I didn't know that I would be passing beach today. It's really very spectacular, what with the cliffs and the wind, and the rocks.

The next stop is Newcastle, which is where my school group was based in 10th grade (the same one that went to Durham). We flew into Edinburgh from Atlanta, and took a train similar to this one down to Newcastle, so this is a fun, reverse journey. Though, I think I slept on that old train, as I have no real memories of this scenery. I know that we arrived at night...

And I certainly don't remember Newcastle people being this unbelievably noisy! They're all absolutely bombed, too! Yikes! Anyway, the lovely British family got off at Darlington, and now I cannot concentrate. Anyway, nearly there!
-

30/10/09 (High Street Hostel)-

Finally here! Armored in a CMF teeshirt, the green one from before my time, my favorite, I rode into Edinburgh feeling pensive and brave- but not exactly confident. Still, so far things are okay, so far. I am glad that there are people all around me. Some of them are most amusing. I think some of these Australians have been here for months! More on that, later.

I'm also under considerably less pressure for this trip to be magical and not-a-waste, which, so far, it is, and isn't, respectively. I've got a few days to explore (or two, anyway) and the hostel hosts free tours (including a ghost tour!) An additional help: Edinburgh is, in fact, awesome. More beautiful than I remembered (and I remembered it as quite beautiful) and with a lot of Lauren-y things to see and do.

It occurs to me as I sit here in this reception lobby, surrounded by all these weary travellers, most of whom are in friend-groups or long-settled societies, that this whole experience, this studying in London business, has indeed been extremely worthwhile. Though not in the way I expected. For the past couple weeks, I've been overcome by a fear that this isn't what it should be, what it's supposed to be- the best time of my life, the fulfillment of a lifelog dream, etc. Indeed, some of it has been quite nakedly painful, and it's hardly the confidence rush I thought it could be. However, I've learned so much about myself here. I'm growing up every second, and with each rejection and disappointment, I keep surprising myself with defensive resolve.

But, all that's just of-the-moment meditation. Not fitting in has that effect on me. Anyway, this hostel is very interesting. For the most part, its occupants are comprised partly of teams of vacationing students from abroad, and partly of individuals who seem to pretty much live here, marking food in the kitchen and hosting Halloween parties. I would like someone to talk to, sure, but it's reward enough to watch these people. There are so many different people and everyone is relaxed, and curious (a lot of staring), and seemingly, lost. I don't exclude myself from this. I'm a bit lost, but maybe that's just a condition of being in my early 20s.

Thinking seriously about this, if I have to travel alone, this is actually perfect for me. This is exactly how I would like to travel. I'm not pressured to do anything I don't want to, as I surely would if I was travelling alone with people (Munich.) There are people all around, friendly people too, if I desperately need to connect. It's perfect for people-watching, and I'm certainly immersed in culture. Tomorrow, I'm going on a walking tour, and then there's a Halloween party. And then a ghost tour at 9! I'm going up to bed now, at 10:00 with my book, and that's no problem whatsoever. So far, this trip is much more good than bad!
-

01/11/09 (Edinburgh Airport)-

I charge forward in excellent spirits! Despite the fact that I ran out of time to see the Writer's Museum, Edinburgh Castle, and Hollyroodhouse Palace (all of which I've seen before), my solo Scots adventure was a phenomenal success. Even after all that self-discovery crap from the other night (and Erin's quotation of Robert Frost in my head,) I made friends, even talked to people without making friends, and enjoyed myself in the UK's Savannah, Georgia.

As decided, I am a great fan of the Euro-Hostel environment, thought this was tested to comic effect by my neighbor in bed "Loire" (I was in "Jordan,") a strapping young lad I sleepily dubbed "Asscrack McSnore." Indeed, I first became alarmed when young Asscrack situated himself on top of the covers, still in his jeans, with about 45% of his lilly-white bottom exposed. Each inadvertent look was a terrifying ordeal, and they became painfully frequent, too, as I soon started to fear for his health. For once he fell asleep, snores of a wild, mythic, bestial nature could be heard by all occupants of Room 6. And especially by me. Now, my father is a violent snorer, and so I did my best to embrace the situation with zen and understanding. I employed all of my tricks: counting the snores, pretending it's me, making sense of Tom Waits lyrics, but nothing worked. Chiefly because Asscrack McSnore has a tendency to mix it up, switching from whistles to chokes to grunts to noises for which there are no words yet.

After some time, I employed myself thinking of how I would represent these sounds textually. Here's what I came up with:

"kwhhhrrrnnnnkkkkwww"
"hnnnnnrtttshhhhh"
"fttttttdyrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt"
and of course, the old classic, "kaaaaaaawwwcth- shhhuuuuuuuu"

After a time, some other hostel occupants actually gathered around him, debating how best to take action. I didn't open my eyes, still haunted by the ass, but I'm sure there was a priest there. Indeed, some of those moans were not unlike those of a young girl from New England trying desperately to communicate through a demonic possession. In the end, this is what I heard:

"Just roll him over or something."
"Maybe just wake him and tell him?"
"Who?"
"Do you think that will work?"
"Okay-"
"WHAT THE HELL?"
"Sorry, I was just trying to turn you, because you were snoring so loud..."
"Jesus Christ!" (I can understand his indignation here. It seems to me a great violation to wake a stranger in this manner- my sleepy plan was simply to kill him.)

Shortly after this episode, the snores were louder than ever. Lord knows how I finally got to sleep.

For a free thing, the tour was shockingly comprehensive. My tour guide was an eager Canadian called Kate. I was disappointed to have her, and not, as my friends-from-later, Kelly and Ben, had, a massive , bearded Scots bloke called Hamish. But what this 6-year stalled backpacker lacked in nationality, she made up for in enthusiasm. And it was free, anyway.

Kate shared with us all manner of monuments, attractions, historical anecdotes, tips, and even the occasional ghost story. I took several pictures, answered questions correctly (Kate giddily told me that I was the only tourist in the whole history of the tour to know the significance of the year 1620) and even shared my amusing reflections with two Americans, Cameron and...his friend from Alaska studying architecture in Paris (funny, the things we do and do not remember.) Cameron was from Sacramento and was studying at Oxford, and both of them were normally students at UC San Francisco. I was disheartened a bit by their lack of conversation initiation, but they laughed enough and responded to my observations with sincerity, so who's to say they didn't like me. Anyway, they left for the airport just after the tour. And fearless solo traveller, Lauren Wood don't need no body, anyway.

I went back to the hostel and spent a couple of hours awkwardly flitting back and forth from my bed to the reception lounge to the Halloween party in the downstairs lounge. There was a ghost tour at 9:30 that sounded cool, but an opportunity for a more unique, authentic, free, and social activity came about when two Americans I had met the night before struck up a conversation and told me about a fire-full Halloween street show...Samhuinn, or something. It was basically a strange, Ent and Faun featuring Celtic ballet.



There was no discernible plot. Very odd indeed. Afterward, I was semi-assaulted by a man in a surgeon's costume. Despite this, it was the first good Halloween I've experienced in a few years. And I left a breakfast run-in with Kelly and Ben with the assurance of their every intention of facebooking me. [Kelly did!]

So, now I'm off to Amsterdam for four nights, but first I need to sleep for a bit [I think I'm on the plane now.] I've just remembered that Amsterdam is famous for tulips, my favorite flower. That's a nice thought to end with, I think.

Just Munich, Paris, and Lauren

Hello again! I do apologize that I haven't updated this in a while, but there has been a lot going on in this American brain in England.

I'll get to Munich in a moment, but first, my troubles: Most of the people who read this (well, all of the people who read this- except for the Northeastern Bureau of Study Abroad Journal Checkers) will know, because of my self-indulgent whining and justified bitching, that I've recently had a bit of a falling out with my flatmates, the MFAs. To make a long story short, after Munich, and a reasonable tension that was apparently resolved, my flatmate Sarah came in wanting to discuss how I don't fit in with the rest of them and how that makes her uncomfortable. I assured her that I was fine on my ownish, and that I definitely like all of them (half true, I think), so no need to worry.

"Of course, if you're bringing this up because you don't like me, then obviously, I can't hang around anymore," says I. Apparently, this was the case.

She felt bad, and guilty, and blah, blah, blah. I'm sure it was incredibly difficult for her. Especially when the rest of MFAs haven't even really noticed that I've been ostracized. But alas, life goes onward. And I'm working on the better friends initiative, but even if it doesn't work out, I've got excellent friends in Boston and Atlanta, and hey, I am still in London! And I really, really do love London.

So. Munich. Munich was...miserable. Comically so. In fact, I had a great deal of fun hating Munich, its horrible weather, its architecture, and of course, its Nazi past. Our flight was very early, to the point of not sleeping the night before, so we were tired to the point of hysteria and deliriousness before we could even see our room.

And then we were fined 5 Euro. No joke. We crossed the street before we had the appropriate signage, and a member of the polizei stopped us and lectured in broken English how 7 Rebellious Citizens of Munich died last year because of jaywalking (do they call it that, there?) and that...is why...I am here...and...five euro, please. I paid, if only for my Souvenir Receipt of German Malfeasance. This did not help improve our perversely distorted opinion of the city. Man, I wish we had gone to Berlin, I said again, to no one.

We went then to the City Hall at Marienplatz, which was a fine building, albeit a bit scary and imposing. Very Gothic. Very Terrifying. All the stone characters adorning the jambs, columns, and buttresses seemed to scream or seek to induce screaming. The people, too, were quite short (of temper) and intimidating, as evidenced by the trouble with our hotel (less said about it the better, suffice it to say they did not like 4 people staying in a room for 2) and the general gloominess of the place. The Hofbrauhaus, that is, the enormous beer garden for which Munich is famous, was fun, though a bit hokey. I kind of felt like I was back in Epcot. And polka music can indeed grate, after a few seconds. Though, fortunately, I met a guy there who shared my admiration for Blackadder, and more particularly the comedy team of Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie. Still, I wish we had gone to Berlin, I said again, to him.

At the end of the day, and after a nap, we were so desperate for some Americana, that we had no choice but to dine at the overpriced, undercultured Hard Rock Café. I did not buy a shirt. I would have bought one in Berlin. Our waitress directed us to the club district, where we danced for much longer than I should have liked. Such is always the case, it seems. Man, I should dump those kids.

The next day, I woke up early to finish The Mysterious Affair at Styles, a very fine book, for my Detective Novel to Crime Fiction class, and the others later joined me and we traveled to Dachau, the site of the first concentration camp of the Nazi regime. I can't really explain fully what it was like to see Dachau, but I can encourage anyone who reads this to visit the site of a concentration camp at some point in their life if at all possible. It's really an extraordinary thing, and your understanding of the Holocaust will be quite profoundly shaken. I elected to go along with them to Dachau instead of seeing the art museums, for shallow reasons that resulted in the tension I spoke of, and while I am sad not to have seen the art that Munich could have offered, I certainly wouldn't trade the experience.

Still, it would have been nice to have been in Berlin, too.

Anyway, upon our return, I received my inglorious, if tentative, dismissal, then proceeded to become sick and depressed, in between classes and a pleasant night of Pub Quizzing with pleasant friends-of-a-friend. We performed abysmally, and not only because of our not being British. But, never fear, Americans. Our reputation is not harmed (anymore than it was already), for our team name was "We're Canadian." Take that, hosers! Anyway, I decided that a trip to Paris would be another nice way to make myself happier...to get my groove back. So I went.

It was a very short visit, and I had visited most of the tourist attractions on a previous visit, so I decided to dedicate my stay to the Louvre and the atmosphere. I had a nice time. The Louvre was even more excellent than I anticipated (though, it still did not manage to crack the top 5 Art Museums) and I quite enjoyed being overwhelmed by the magnitude of the place. There was something peculiar about the expression of that Mona Lisa picture, so I couldn't really understand what all the fuss was about, especially with all the Veroneses in the same room, and Gericault's Raft of Medusa looked even better in person than it does reproduced in vegetables as an occasional desktop background for my computer.

One great surprise, was to see one of my favorite series of portraits, the Four Seasons Portraits by Giuseppe Arcimboldo. I had no idea that those wacky paintings were in the stuffy Louvre. You see, it's rather like the Gericault made up of vegetables, but instead, this 16th century Italian originally painted a series of self-portraits made up of flowers, produce, and leaves. Genius.



After the Louvre, I walked around until dark. Traveling alone, I decided it would be best not to be out past dark (and what would I do, anyway?) Before heading back to the hotel, I saw the opera house, and the Eiffel Tower, and several very French-looking cafés and brasseries. I enjoyed myself, but felt a little lonely. Such is the Lauren way, I suppose.

Anyway, outside the Louvre, a man spoke to me in French (probable translation: "Just need to check that you're not actually French before I say the thing that usually works on American tourists...American tourist says 'what?'") and when he realized I was American (Me: "What?") He told me that I have a very Parisian style, and welcomed me to his country. Later, the receptionist at the hotel (a woman in customer service) told me my hat was beautiful (well, it was- excellent, TJ Maxx, we've fooled them!), so that helped. Nothing helps a sad, lonely American tourist smile again like art and some validation from the French.

So, tomorrow, I am off on my own again to Edinburgh, and then to Amsterdam, and Brussels. It's reading week, and my Modernism and Drama paper isn't due next Monday after all (hooray!). The flatmates will be in Amsterdam and Brussels, but excluded me from the booking of the hotel/hostel. I might use them for a dinner here and there, but I plan to get better at keeping my own company, so who needs them? Hopefully, too, the hostel environment will prove more social than sketchy, and I'll make some friends who are not raping thieves.

Yikes. This is going to be an adventure. I'll keep up the posting!

Also, for reference, an update and expansion- and I still haven't seen any of Berlin (or D'Orsay, or the Orangerie, or the Van Gogh in Amsterdam, or...):

10. Picasso Museum (Barcelona, Spain)
9. Park Guell (Barcelona, Spain) (This counts, I think)
8. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (Boston, USA)
7. Tate Britain (London, England)
6. Louvre (Paris, France)
5. Henri Matisse Museum (Nice, France)
4. Tate Modern (London, England)
3. Isabella Stewart Gardner (Boston, USA)
2. National Portrait Gallery (London, England)
1. MoMA (New York, USA)

Happy Birthday Grandpa!

Not to worry, all...I'll be posting about Miserable Munich in a day or two...

But today, I haven't been feeling well, fell asleep after my 3-5 class (Detective Story to Crime Fiction) not to awake until nowish, and closed the IM from my mom with my grandfather's e-mail!

But I have been told that he reads this, so, to Grandpa, I would like to wish an extremely HAPPY BIRTHDAY from the whole city of London. That's right, I've told them all.

Also, though I'm sure I'll either "top-up" my phone or hear from Mom by tomorrow and oh yeah that's right Gus (unlike Grandpa) is on facebook, I did want to wish him, my brother, Gus "the Miser" Wood a very wonderful opening night tomorrow. Remember Gus, it's just six soliloquies. And if you feel like you're going to throw up, use it. Also, I think Goneril should wear a helmet!

Man, I miss Slings and Arrows. Anyway, Happy Birthday Grandpa (again) and I'll be back soon for a hefty Munich-y post!

Old English Things

This is the latest in my blogging trend of putting it off until I'm about to do something else blog-worthy and can't put it off anymore.

Tomorrow, I'm off to Munich, Germany. It's the first of (hopefully) many trips to the continent, as Jane Austen would say, while I'm here. Though, I'm sure Jane Austen, and anyone else remotely cool, would prefer to go to Berlin. Because Berlin is way cooler. But I was outvoted. I'll still try and make it there, eventually, maybe even during this adventure. We'll see. In the meantime, I've almost read enough "Munich is the new Berlin!" articles off the New York Times travel website to convince me that I'll have a good time. Almost.

Anyway, I'll talk about that in my next post. I hope.

But last week, after I finished blogging about Oxford and the Tates, I woke up really early and walked with the girls from the dorm to the main building to wait uncomfortably with a bunch of other American girls (and two guys) to take a big tour bus to Stonehenge and then to Bath. Actually, the first stop was Egham, Surrey to pick up the snotty foreign kids from Royal Holloway University. Then we went to Stonehenge.

Our tour guide, Justin Something was pleasant enough. He didn't exactly seem to pick up on the clues indicating that he should shut up about the damned alien theory. We all know the truth. Also, he looked like a skinny, British Aaron Eckhart. I considered an affair with him, but I'd probably end up crying into a walkie-talkie in a room full of gas tanks. And then I'd blow up and he'd become a villain. Can't have that. Anyway, I had been to Stonehenge before, but it's always cool to see again. I particularly enjoyed taking in the social atmosphere of the site on this visit. People look kind of funny when they're awe-struck. Also, I made a fun game out of trying to get into the backgrounds of people's pictures without appearing too obvious. There are some French kids out there that are going to put me up on facebook, possibly as their profile picture. Look out!

Stonehenge itself was magical indeed. It is, after all, "one of the biggest henges in the world. No one's built a henge like that ever since. No one knows what the fuck a henge is." Oh, Eddie Izzard. He'll be back in a few sentences. As for my Stonehenge "theory," I mean, anyone who watches the History Channel now knows the truth of how it's a burial ground near a small village, but how did the rocks get there? I do like the alien theory, but I think they might have been too busy with the pyramids or Easter Island. I think I shall, like always, side with Eddie and believe that the Druids tricked the Welsh people to drag the rocks carved "out of the very living mountain" all the way to Salisbury. "Oh building a henge, are we? Oh, that's fantastic!" "You never said 200 miles! 200 miles in this day and age, I don't even know where I live now!"

"Anyway, before Stonehenge there was Woodhenge, and Strawhenge..."

Then we drove past a huge, white-chalk horse carved into a mountain, toward Bath. Now, I had also been to Bath before, but it was with Ms. Smith and the 10th grade exchange trip posse, so we went to the Roman baths and that was it. Most unsatisfying. Jane Austen didn't listen to audioguides! Though, I must concede that it was a nice touch to have Bill Bryson stops on the audio tour, where he would just rabbit on about how much he loves Bath. Bill Bryson is pretty cool. Apart from Bill's stops, though, the Roman Bathhouse did still manage to be awesome in its own, "Romans walked here" kind of way. I also like how it starts out in a Georgian building built around the Roman ruins, and as you go down, you go back...in history. I did almost trip a few times, though. Romans apparently don't make the best sidewalks.

The actual main pool bit, where the classy people used to hang out and splash around was in the center of it all, was a nice place to sit and read while waiting for your less-Bath-experienced chums to finish up their audio tour. It was also a great place to see American tourists make jerks of themselves. Justin Eckhart (as he shall henceforth be known) told us on the bus not to touch the water "under any circumstances," because apparently a few years ago, a girl got meningitis and died after taking a swim. But of course, one group of American boys stuck feet in, heedless of my (silent, but expressive) warning. Next time I go, I bet it will be roped off.

MFAs and I met up for lunch once they finished that infernal tour. I became overwhelmed at a baguette stand and blurted out "beef and horseradish!" so naturally, the horseradish was way too spicy (for me!) and I had to pick it apart. But whatever. We then wandered back to the alley to join Justin Eckhart for a walking tour of the city.

Justin proved a fairly capable tour guide, though showed little interest in talking to me, who had already given up on the affair (he'd probably make me start smoking), but seemed to like the busty German girls from Holloway. Most of his information was interesting, especially in regards to the early developments of Bath-as-social-capital, and we did hit all the important stops, including the place where Thomas Gainsborough lived, the famous Royal Crescent, the circus, and the place where Queen Anne (I think) had her kid. Or conceived her kid. Or something. Google results are inconclusive.

So, when we passed the Jane Austen museum, I had to duck in for a bit, if only too look at the ridiculously overpriced merchandise you can buy to declare to the world just how quickly you're going to become an old Spinster. I must admit, I really wanted a fan. And a correspondence kit. And one of the fancy pens that looks like a quill. And I did enjoy that they were playing what I sadly recognized as the soundtrack to the Colin Firth Pride and Prejudice miniseries (the first scene with Lady Catherine DeBourgh.)

I got a bit lost getting back to the bus, especially after the girls who also stayed back at the museum went the wrong way (I think I went the right way). I was all set to good-naturedly poke fun at ourselves for being sad, Austenphiles, but they didn't really seem to want to talk to me. And they spoke German. It was most depressing, as I heard, amidst the German, "Tobey Stephens in Jane Eyre," "Colin Firth," "Persuasion," and "Oh...Darcy!" We should have been chums!

Bath really is a beautiful place, so even if I didn't buy any of that ridiculousness, or listen at all the stops on the Bath's audio tour, or listen to everything Justin Eckhart said, it was still pretty amazing just to be there and soak up the scenery. Most of MFAs agreed that Bath is definitely on the live-list in England, probably around the settle-down-with-kids or retirement stage. Jane Austen died hereabouts, didn't she?

And I saw a poster for the Morris movie. I had forgotten about that. Heh. It looks very funny. (http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi3361669657/ and for good measure, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DiFq_nk8pE0)

Anyway, hopefully those two links will make up for the fact that I'm rushed and not really in the blogging mood, despite the need. Perhaps I'll edit this later, perhaps not, but hopefully, it's adequate and competent, just like Justin's tour! And not obnoxious like that girl behind me on the bus back to school.

Cockney slang I don't understand: Okay, well, I know this one (thanks to Justin Eckhart) but can you guess what a haha is?

We don't need no thought control (Part II)

So, we're back to jumbled anecdotes, because, as I'm sure you've noticed, I haven't updated in a while. I hope that I can remember that trip to Oxford. Really, that's why I'm forcing myself to update right now.

That and the fact that I promised Erin McGann that I would...last night.

Anyway, I went to the Tate Britain and the Tate Modern today on another troublingly pleasant solo adventure, and got a bit lost as I walked back in the rain (which I found very pleasant) so tonight, I'm staying in the dorm and watching The Office wedding and dreading the early meet-up time (7:00???) for tomorrow's day-trip with an official student tour group into Bath and to Stonehenge. Please request your favorite Jane Austen/Roman/Bathroom/Spinal Tap-related puns or witticisms now.

Oxford! It was a lovely little college town, a bit intimidating, what with all the tourist-worthy smart people that could be the next Blairs. Or Thatchers. Or Audens. Or Palins (Michael, not Sarah- dear God in heaven, I do not mean Sarah). Or Grants (Hugh). And while Harry Potter did not actually attend Oxford, the movie would have you believe that he had his meals there.

Yes, a good portion of the Oxford-Tourism circuit is dedicated to the filming locations of the Harry Potter films. I was not the only dork about this, either. Mike and Mike's girlfriend didn't seem too enthused, but Taryn took a lot of pictures of the hall at Christchurch where Maggie Smith-as-McGonagall addressed the wee firsties before they were sorted into their houses. You know? In the movies, it's where Draco Malfoy is first introduced, and Harry's all "I think I can figure out the right sort for myself, thanks." Anyway, as we passed that hall again, it was flooded with British schoolchildren and their teacher who was wearing some sort of religious garb that could have passed for wizard's clothing. We were not shy about taking pictures of the kids as if they were young wizards. One had glasses, and his hood up to cover what I can only assume was his unruly black hair and his lightning scar.

But beyond that, and the Great Hall where Dumbledore speaks to the troops, and the Quiddich pitch, there wasn't much else that I could recognize. However, there remained a number of fun and historically interesting attractions, specifically the Cathedral at Christchurch and the view from the St. Mary's Tower. The Cathedral was nice, as cathedrals go, and there was a man in there praying at the top of his lungs. My fellow Americans (I like that...and it's easier than repeatedly typing out names, so I'm going use MFAs henceforward) were all annoyed at his in-your-face religiousness, but I thought it provided a nice soundtrack. Tourist Cathedrals are always just a bit too quiet. There should be someone in them talking (or singing) about God. Heh. That reminds me of Slings and Arrows Season 1 Episode 2, and the Priest at Oliver's funeral Richard hired to mention God. Good times. Mom, Gus, Joe, and Erin know what I'm talking about!

The Tower at St. Mary's was an awesome way to take in the whole city, as you could, in fact, see the whole city from the top. There was a tight spiral staircase that took you up very, very high, and I am, in general, not a terrific fan of those things (see Barcelona's La Sagrada Familia) but I did alright. I had the three of them go first, to break my fall, just in case. Also, I didn't want to hold them up, what with the weeping. Once we got up there, up very high, we walked around and took pictures from all sides of the old buildings, the new buildings, the surrounding countryside, and the money people had thrown into the mouths of gargoyles and grotesques. Quite spectacular, really. I recommend it.

Next, we did the Tower of Oxford. Actually, it was called the Oxford Castle or something, but it was basically just like the Tower of London, but in Oxford and therefore less significant. It was an Anglo-Saxon fortification, and then a Norman Castle, and then Matilda escaped from Stephen's cronies disguised as some snow (if you don't know that story, I really recommend it- but can't relate right now...what with the whole 7:00 departure time, new Nick Hornby, and it's currently 0:09 business) and then it was a jail. After the Cromwell-era inmate who led the tour let us to our own devises, we actually got to see some Victorian torture devises. Mainly, they were tortuous in that they were boring. But, overall it was a pretty interesting place. Oh! And there was an underground lair that was apparently haunted!

At a late lunch with 2-for-1 cocktails, we decided that there wasn't much left for us to enjoy in Oxford. Well, really, Mike decided this, and we were all inclined to sort of agree. There wasn't much else in the way of concrete activity, but it might have been enjoyable to roam for a bit. Regardless, we left and on the way, I finished the post below. It was a pretty great trip, and I think that I wouldn't mind seeing the probably-similar Cambridge. It's got better celebrity alumni (more royalty, more Pythons, more Stephen Fry, more Nick Hornby) and a more in-depth wikipedia article.

So, that was Oxford. After that, I went out dancing (ugh) with MFAs and actually enjoyed myself for more than an hour and a half. Unfortunately, we were out for much longer. Still, it was a big step for me. I danced with a German guy, and Sarah and I were hit on by the same gay man (Andy, very muscular), and the minicab home at 3:30 cost 38 quid. Awesome. The German Guy, whose name I have forgotten, told me I was a good dancer, which proves that it was a tough night for all involved. Then I had a week of classes again. They continue swimmingly. I think my Modernism & Drama professor quite likes me. Makes sense, since he's German.

Today, I finally made it to the Tate Galleries. I have been planning to go for ages (you know, since I've been here) but never got around to it, what with all of the Oxford-visiting, and the dancing, and the sleeping in, and classes, and this infernal blogging business. They were both really great, in their very different ways. The Tate Britain had a lot of nice portraits, which I really like, as you know, and some great Pre-Raphaelite and Victorian stuff. I enjoyed it much more than I thought I would, and actually regretted leaving in time to catch the very cool ferry to the Tate Modern.

The Tate Modern was pretty cool, almost comparable to the indomitable MoMA, especially since it is in London, and MoMA is not. Though, counting against it: very dark and inconvenient bathrooms, and a gallery devoted to the Actionists who liked to paint with blood (one very disturbing painting's title? Menstruation picture. NO ONE NEEDS TO SEE THAT, says me, a girl very open-minded when it comes to modern art innovations) I did like that it was separated by ideas, rather than years or era-specific movements, and the architecture was really cool. I wanted to spend more time there, too (more predictably) but I figure I'll be going again when the Fam invades at Thanksgiving. I bet Gus will really want to see it now, huh? Also, I did not see Marcel Duchamp's "Ready Made" piece, which was, in fact, just a urinal turned on its side. It's still in the gallery, apparently, since it represented an important question as to "what art is," but surely he was being Duchamp-y, right?

Anyway, the blood business of the Actionists, and that one on the 5th floor that was just a canvas with a razor-cut in the middle asks the same question, I think.

I shall return after Bath and Stonehenge!

Cockney slang I don't understand: Innit?

We don't need no education...etc. (Part I)

Fortunately, this entry is not just a random assortment of anecdotes and musings about what I said I was going to say in the entry before. I have a plan! I have something specific to talk about, and it relates to both the setting in which I wrote it, and what I'll be talking about next! Maybe. A bit. Well, there are definitely similarities.

The following, about my educational classes, was written on my way to the educational Oxford University (see how that works?) Enjoy!

So, I'm on a train- headed to the first of my UK day-trip destinations, Oxford, Oxfordshire. Very exciting indeed. My hand shakes with anticipation, though that might just be the train. Anyway, you can definitely tell from my handwriting that something's shaky. Trust me.

Also, I must say that I became a little nostalgic upon opening this notebook and flipping to a new page. There were a lot of old AT&T phone inventory notes and taco bell orders (3 tacos and a meximelt, Abe?) from last year's California adventure.

So anyway, moving on, I also must note that the train has just passed the lovely little township of Slough. For those readers who don't know the glorious mess that is David Brent, this is is where the original Office took place. I took a picture of the sign like the dork that I am, and informed my American compatriots of its significance. One fool professed that he hated the British Office, and then referred to the American version as the "real" Office. Needless to say, I've traded his conversation for the Pixies.

Moving on again (past Reading now) I wanted to use this time to go over my classes, now that I've had my first week. All have been entertaining and promise to be neither too time-consuming nor too mindless. So, let's begin with Monday!

At 11:00 a.m. I have Old English with a teacher I unfortunately only remember as "Carole," though now that I think of it, I don't even know the first names of any other teachers. Awesome. Regardless, Carole brought us brownies for the break and seems to really adore the weird spelling found in Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People and other Anglo-Saxon texts. So far, the class is an interesting combination of history, language, and spelling words incorrectly. For example, a challenge: decode this- "Wille ge beon beswungen on leornunge?" Any ideas? How about "Ic eom bysgod on sange"? Before you get intimidated, remember, kids, it's English! Also, sound it out, and say it fast.

At 3:00 p.m. (15:00, must get used to that...) and not 3:32 p.m. (15:32) which is when I arrived in the elusive-alternate-universe-only room 328 of the Richard Hoggart building, I have Modernism & Drama. Modernism & Drama is not! my professor insists, Modernist drama, but rather an examination of the impact of the modernist movement on drama, particularly in regards to the naturalism movement and...then I lost track of what he was saying, because of all the isms and his fantastic German accent, which is best demonstrated with the mention of Bertolt Brecht. Our discussion of Ibsen's Ghosts was most exciting, what with all the shocking cultural taboos that no one wanted to talk about. Poor Osvald. What's a mother to do?

I just recently switched into my Tuesday 15:00 class, and I am quite delighted with it. How could I be otherwise? It doesn't give me much help Northeastern credit-wise, but the title? "The Detective Story to Crime Fiction." Awesome right? I mean, with a lack of TV and a 72-minute cap on megavideo viewing, I can't watch hours and hours of Law and Order reruns everyday while I pretend to study, so this is an excellent, and far more enriching substitute. The class is taught by the head of the department who rocks a classic English professor's bald-ponytail. He references CSI and apparently knows, and hates, P.D. James ("horrid in person and on page.") So, I predict good sleuthing times ahead. Based on that evidence. Hardee har har. Also, I should buy a deerstalker and a tweed suit. And a pipe.

Finally, at 11:00 on Wednesdays I have Language & the Media. I am the only American in the class, which is lovely, since a great deal of attention is paid to me and my unique experience with the vastly different American media. It reminds me a bit of Rhetoric, in a way that I imagine will be helpful, and the teacher likes that I am a journalism major. In other words, I am knowledgeable and the center of attention. That's the dream!

As of the last sentence of "Modernism & Drama," I am back on the train after a lovely day in lovely Oxford. You know, Rowan Atkinson went there, and he was in Blackadder. There were also narrow spiral staircases leading to spectacular and terrifying heights. But I'll get to that tomorrow, because I'm tired and have the Laws of King Alfred (It actually looks more like Aepelbert, but pasting the original Old English letters make the website freak out a bit) to read before 11:00 on Monday. Ah, leornunge!

Also, I want to be alert for when we pass Slough again, so that I can hum the real Office theme song. "So what becomes of you my loooove?..."

Cockney slang I don't understand: Well, how about "Ic neom swa micel swegere"?

What I didn't mention before...

The following is transcribed from my notebook, while I was sitting in a cafe before my brand new class today. And I still have more to add, so be aware that this is going to be a very long post. Hopefully, that is. I mean, if not, I haven't done my job!

Here we go:

I'm sitting in a tiny, dingy café on campus, and for the first time since I've been here, there's no trace of another American anywhere. While I was rather anxious for an experience like this, however small or silly, this is a bit intimidating. I don't belong here, do I? Perhaps this is their (the Brits') retreat from all the American invaders (there are a lot of us!) and I've just ruined it. Though, more likely, they simply don't regard me- with my Old Navy sweater-hoodie and my non-skinny jeans.

Also, I was just served and ate my food- coriander and eggs scramble. Very good, but essentially eggs on toast. I have to wonder if I ate it correctly. And if they mocked my knife-and-fork action.

Anyway, I need to finish some business here before moving on to new and exciting topics like whether or not that guy by the window is the same one who helped me with my bag on my first day here (I can't recognize him without the beret) or why Vodaphone keeps sending me text-messages and faking me out.

First and foremost: Why am I in London?

Well, as we all know from the title of this blog, I have always been a bit of an anglophile (a person who admires and expresses enthusiasm for British customs, culture, or people), or rather, a huge anglophile. Despite the odds against it, and its plentiful disadvantages, Britain always seems to produce the best of everything- except the food of course, but they work with what they have. Everything: the best slang, the best rock music, the best museums, the best literature, and most important of all, the best, the very best television. Perhaps even more revered by me than British television, however, is British history, the best a Western ethno-centric can study.

Mentioning this history, a study of declines and falls and Shakespearean pro-underdog speeches, is a nice segue-way into my account of the National Portrait Gallery, my second order of business.

Like all my lists, my Top 5 Greatest Art Museums (that I've seen) List tends to shift, but, at the moment it stands thus:

5. Henri Matisse Museum (Nice, France)
4. Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York City, NY)
3. Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (Boston, MA)
2. National Portrait Gallery (London, England)
1. Museum of Modern Art (New York City, NY)

Naturally, this is like to change very soon. I do plan on seeing Paris for longer than one day, which will qualify the Louvre, the Museum D'Orsay, along with London's Tate Modern, and whatever Berlin has to offer. But, not yet. So see above, and note the National Portrait Gallery's proximity to the top. This is why I'm glad I went myself. If one of the flatmates had come along, surely they would have revolted as I read every little information card, and stared into every face.

There are two things I love, Art and History, and portraiture combines the two, awesomely. A walk through the gallery is practically a top-down History lesson, with the characters staring right at you. One portrait, for awesome example, caught my eye for its stunningly, modernly attractive subject, Sir James Brooke. The card informed me that he was the first white Rajah of Sarawak (an imperialist, wow, probably not the best of guys, then) who was suspected of cruelty and corruption (Ah. Well done there, hotstuff). A look back at his handsome face, and I could see him even more clearly. "Yeah, that's me. Adventurer." Such fun! And there was that family portrait of the Brontës, by the brother. And Tudors galore. Basically, anyone that was anyone in the whole course of British History. I stayed until closing, and took the bus back to the dorm.
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And then I had to go to class. This is, by the way, an excellent stopping point, if you've had enough of studyabloodybroad right now. By the way, how awesome is that URL? I think I'm going to change the title to showcase it further.
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So, order of business No. 3: Trips with Flatmates.

We could call the jaunt into Greenwich "3a," then. I went into Greenwich with flatmates Taryn, Sarah, and Vaughn, plus non-flatmates Mike, and Marielle. It was walk-able, which was nice, though not exactly scenic. Once we arrived, we went to the park that houses the fanfare-labeled Grand Meridian line separating time zones and hemispheres. The whole affair was pretty cool, and it was nice to spend the time with the friends, and the pub where we stopped for Fish & Chips and Chicken Burgers was similarly delightful. I don't know that it will warrant a trip back, though. I'll check the book again, but I don't know what else is there beyond the big, important line, which I can imagine anywhere.

I can't remember anything else to say about that trip, so we'll move on to "3b-c," Thames Trek and Herrod's n' Hyde.

The day after my solo journey to Trafalgar Square, I decided I wanted to go in again, with or without people. I called down the hall, and Taryn and Vaughn both signed on. We walked to the bus stop, and waited forever for the 453 to Marylebone, before we rashly decided to take a bus headed for London Bridge. We got off at the bridge, which is not the iconic bridge (that's Tower Bridge) and walked in the direction of St. Paul's Cathedral talking about what we were going to do next. I was in favor of St. Paul's, but the others were indecisive, until we saw a sign for the Riverside Walk. The signs directed us to a delightful little path that led straight to Tower Bridge (the iconic one), which we walked across, and the Tower of London, which we gawked at from the outside. There was a park on the other side of the river, by City Hall, where people were bungee-jumping from cranes. We watched that for a bit with some good burgers, better chips, and bad beer, before walking back along the other side of the river. It was all very pleasant and laid-back.

Sarah and Vaughan invited me to Herrod's with them later on that weekend. I happily accepted, and after getting an Oyster Card and attempting a train ride, we hopped on the bus again, and got off at Hyde Park Corner, in Knightsbridge. Herrod's was busy and huge and overwhelming, and it was absolutely impossible to find an affordable place to eat. So we went to a classy, European McDonald's. Unfortunately, it wasn't my first time. I did get some truffles at Herrod's though. And they were worth their weight in gold.

After that, we found Hyde Park, and it was absolutely beautiful. I felt like I was in a French Impressionist painting. We wanted to rent some paddleboats on the Serpentine, but they were herding them in for the day. All agreed, though, that we were totally going back.

So, that's enough for now. I'll update about classes tomorrow, once I've had the last first class of the first week. I also apologize for the horrible sentences that are probably lurking in the last half of this post, since I am attempting to be social, and am sitting in the kitchen with my flatmates, who are all currently discussing high school debauchery.

As a preview, here is my class schedule:

Monday- Old English (11:00), Modernism & Drama (15:00- or, you know, 3:00 p.m. They love the 24-hour-clock here)

Tuesday- Detective Novel to Crime Fiction (15:00)

Wednesday- Language and the Media (11:00)

And then 4-day weekends! Exciting, no?

Slang I don't understand: "Sorted." Now, while I do know what sorted means (I read Harry Potter), I don't really understand the frequency with which this word is used. For example, at the café mentioned above- "One Coriander and Egg Scramble? 4 pounds. You're sorted, love." What?

The First Week

My flatmates are all American. It's not typical, apparently, and I'm a little frustrated to lack the whole immersion experience, but it's early days. I start class tomorrow, and hopefully I'll meet some Brits or other internationals in that setting. One of my biggest reservations about studying in my beloved London was that it is the American's European Town, and the similarities won't allow for much personal growth and boundary-pushing. So, the all-American dorm doesn't exactly help with that reservation.

That said, my roommates are all delightful, and I don't know that I would trade any of them for a European. Well, none of the ones that I really know, anyway.

So, my first week of this experience has been all about Americans in London. We went to pubs around New Cross (the sad little town where Goldsmiths is located), laughed about accents and bobby hats, and passed Big Ben while taking a bus in to the city, oohing and aahing all the way. It's been nice, really. I like being a tourist, and an American stranger in a strange land. I've always thought that London was really good for that kind of thing, too, what with friendly people and a perfect combination of lovable tackiness and cool satire.

My first visit into London was at night, and to an Irish pub. With the flatmates. After drinks. And a drunken bus ride (not me, them.) I was not terribly amused by any of it. Particularly the dancing and the club business. It's not for me. The whole time, I was wondering exactly how dangerous it would be if I left the crowd and walked around Trafalgar Square by myself at 11:00 p.m.

So the next day, I did just that. Well, not at 11 p.m., and not breaking away from any crowds, but I did catch a bus and land in the square all by myself. After absorbing Nelson's Column and the general Trafalgarness of it all, I went to the National Gallery and sat in on a lecture on Guercino's "Elijah fed by Ravens," and stared for a few years at the dots in Seurat's "Bathers at Asnieres." I was only rushed by myself, and no one kept me longer than I wanted to look at Flemish Renaissance masterpieces or something (not that I mind the Flemish Renaissance, of course...)

I was even more happy to be on my own for my next stop: the National Portrait Gallery.

I do want to get into that experience, but it's getting late, and I'm sure the story will tie in excellently with tomorrow's post (I am optimistic) about my first classes, London with fellow Americans, and why I am studying here in London. Actually, it ties quite excellently into why I'm here.

But now, I am tired. And I have class in the morning.

Cockney slang I don't understand: "Fair do's."

The Journey from Gate E14

The flight was largely uneventful. Actually, I conveniently slept through most of it. As of this moment, I am unhindered by any trace of jet-lag. Though perhaps this will change. Especially now that it's on my mind. Hmm.

Anyway, trudging on...As most readers should know, I am Lauren, and I am finally studying at Goldsmiths, University of London after a long summer of in-theory preparation and a lifetime of anticipation. Studying abroad, and in London, has been a part of my plan since before I even knew what college really was. There are many reasons why London is my choice. I think I'll get to them later, though, and recap my arrival for now.

So, the flight. I sat next to a very friendly British couple that I was sitting close to in the waiting room/terminal. I remember this because I accidentally hit Mr. Brit with my jacket sleeve, apologized (as is my custom) and he said "Oh, what a polite young lady!"

Normally such a comment would bug me, but he was British, and I crave their approval. Especially the older ones. This will inevitably become a deep, scarring, psychological problem. So I was pleased. And very excited. Also, I could see that Mr. Brit was reading "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" which was nice. I haven't read it, but it takes place in Savannah, and I love and recently visited Savannah. I rather saw it as a cosmic goodbye from my homeland. I also remember that there was a screaming child, and inedible chicken, but, as I said, I slept. So my memory of the flight is largely and elusively fantastical (dreams).

Entering the country was easy-peezy. Almost...too easy? I was actually a little terrified to see a woman at the entrance holding a sign with my name. Wasn't I supposed to get the bus at 1 p.m.? Wasn't I supposed to have many, many issues getting into the country? This couldn't be for me!

It was! The woman brought me to a man who brought me to a car which brought me (and the man, who drove it) to Goldsmiths, University of London (henceforward, just "Goldsmiths"). I was flabbergasted the whole way. It was a personal valet situation! When Northeastern doesn't communicate something to me, isn't it supposed to be an annoyance? Nevertheless, after the initial shock, I had to admit that residential London looks a lot like Boston's Back Bay. Ugh. Have I really given up a semester in Boston for a semester in "Boston"?

That's when we crossed a bridge (London Bridge?) and I was looking at the London Eye. I knew what that meant. I turned my head to the other window and saw The Houses of Parliament, and Big Ben. The driver mercifully ignored my squeaks.

I am in London.

P.S. Cockney slang that I don't understand of this entry: "P.O.B.": Says my driver to his mate on the phone "Sorry, Mate. I got P.O.B. at the moment." Thoughts?