Well, folks, it's real. The city, I mean. There are buildings and people and funky little L's dictating prices. There are pigeons and taxi's and large red double-decker buses. And lots of people speaking lots of languages!
I'm doing my best to keep up a guise as a native whilst I'm traversing the roads. I've got my new wardrobe (courtesy ma mama) and I'm attempting the attitude of "oh I just live here. I cross this road everyday" which, of course, doesn't work when I step in front of a taxi and it beeps at me or almost cause a biker to wipe out. By the way, the bikers here are vicious. Every single biker is about to implode from sheer speed and determination. Who needs a motorcycle when you can just cycle?
Yesterday we we arrived, were stacked onto buses, unloaded at our flats and moved like sloppy, bleary-eyed lemmings through London to the Notre Dame London Centre. We were given basic info (and when I say given I mean offered and not necessarily taken, seeing as about half of the group was unintentionally communing with the back of their eyelids). I'm happy to announce I was awake for all but one talk, I just can't figure out which one.
I went to bed at 6pm London time, which was 28 hours after I awoke. I woke up at 3:30am dreaming of Troy Tulowitzki, and then realized he was probably playing the Dodgers the same moment. I convinced myself to go back to sleep and awoke again at 7am. Then I took a shower.
Here lies the vertical exercise. The shower is about two feet each direction. This means that I put my shampoo on the ground, and when time comes to use it, I do I perfectly centered squat to reach it. I foresee great mastery.
I gave myself an hour and forty-five minutes to walk to the ND building, time to eat, get lost and wander. After passing about 42 cafes I popped into one and stared at the menu above the counter with a bored, this-old-thing look that hopefully masked the panic of discerning the unnecessarily British names for their basically twenty different takes on the danish. I bet in Denmark they don't have twenty names for a danish, and it's named after them. I finally decided to start slow, and just order a baguette. I pointed at one and said in an English accent, "I'll take one of those." The woman then pointed to the smaller loaves on the counter and asked in a Russian accent if I wanted one of those instead. Realizing I now had the upper hand, being English and her thinking she's the foreigner, I agreed and then ordered a macchiato. I have no idea what a macchiato is, but it's quite fun to say with an English accent. Try it. She got very nervous, asking me if I wanted butter on the bread and sugar in the macchiato, each time looking at me apologetically as if she should have known to ask me sooner. Each time I said, "Sure," in a confident, woman-of-the-world sort of way. It cost a grand total of...one pound fifty. Which is pretty darn good, if I may say.
Then I got lost and ended up in Trafalgar Square. No complaints.
Got to the Centre. Got into call the classes I wanted. Bought lunch for L2.40. Went shopping with the roommies for dinner (we're making our own pasta. COOKING! REAL COOKING!) Came back and nested.
Ahh. View from my room:
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