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."