Piano Drumming, Peter Pan and Persian Food

Last night, at 11:00 (23:00) we decided we wanted ice cream. Now, this is pretty non-existent at 11pm, so after much interneting we found Tinseltown, a 24-hour diner that caters to the bumbling post-clubbers. Turns out, it is one rockin' 80's restaurant. Our booth was next to blown-up pics of Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan (SO glad this is what the Brits use to encapsulate Hollywood fame). I ordered a Reeses Cups milkshake (makin' Daddy proud) and it was pretty much just mushed up Reeses in ice cream. Basically, the greatest thing ever. The place was loaded with screens showing some sort of 80's music video countdown. We were Rickrolled. And then - and THEN!!! Every Little Thing She Does is Magic.



See, Jesus wanted me at that diner last night. BTW, if you've never seen Kate Bush's music video for "Babooshka" (here's lookin' at you, Joe) go Youtube it. Or just click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ot3cVY1JESQ

Today I slept in and then went venturin' on me own. I took the tube to Hyde Park and went to Speaker's Corner. There were many impassioned speakers, some preaching the Gospel, some talking about the evils of government, and my personal favorite, the sad state of the banana. "They deserve to die!" he proclaimed. "They were too stupid to get out of the fruit cargo bins, so if they get eaten, it's their own fault!"



I started walking through Hyde Park, hoping to run into a certain boy who wouldn't grow up. After an hour of walking, I gave up. Then I ran into a sign pointing the statue out, so I turned around and decided it was do or die till I saw Peter Pan. After about a million repositionings of the massive bag I was carrying (housing all of Volume 3 of "Gather" Hymnal piano accompaniment) I found a pretty directive sign. And then I found Peter himself. I sat down and journaled for a while, took pictures for nice British couples, and told people I did not, in fact, know the directions to Buckingham Palace. I plan to go back. This was a preliminary Pan stake-out.



I somehow, by the grace of God, managed to pull off music for Mass. I had to play the piano. Pause for laughter. See, I don't really PLAY the piano. I plinky-plink my way through songs and mess around with my own stuff, but I can't ACTUALLY play notes on a page. I can invert them into diminished 7th chords, but honestly, when am I going to need to do that? So I played chords while my beauteous, most appreciated pick-up choir sang the melody. I had NINE people come and sing in the front. Either they really like me and wanted to help me out, or else they were all just too intimidated to say no when I asked. Frankly, I don't care, because I wasn't alone looking like the Phantom of the Opera in the corner banging out chords and trying to read lyrics at the same time. There were a great deal of mishaps, but only one chorister started laughing (not saying who), and most people didn't notice. God bless the musically incoherent masses. My personal favorite moment was when I decided I couldn't for the life of me play "I Am the Bread of Life" (four flats! FOUR!) so we did it a Capella and I "bongoed" on the top of the piano during the refrain. So, imagine 150 poli-sci and business majors singing "And I will rai-haize you up! And I will rai-haize you up!" with no piano to dictate a tonal center and me up in the corner pounding the top of the piano to keep everyone on beat.

Oh. Dear. God.

OKAY so after Mass we broke into groups and went to dinner at different international places, lovingly subsidized by LUP (London Undergraduate Programme). I ended up in the Persian food group. It was DELICIOUS. I had lamb and falafal and hummus. FALAFAL! In honor of Darrel, because there was once an unnecessarily drawn-out inside joke in his musicianship class about someone yelling, "Well, it isn't a party without falafal" in the middle of a restaurant. I resisted the urge to yell, but I enjoyed it none the less.

Books, the Brit on My Mobile, and Liturgical Music Mayhem

Hello, trolly people.

Today I picked up my books. Since I had the first slot for registration, I had the back slot for getting books. Got about half on loan, had to buy the others. We walked through Trafalgar Square to get from the Centre to Waterstones, the bookstore. The Square was PACKED. Everyone and their Asian counsin came out to sightsee. It's comforting to know there's always going to be someone who looks more out of the loop than me.

I asked for my three copies of plays for my Shakespeare class, Othello, As You Like It, and Troilus and Cressida. Got 'em. I've never heard of the last one, so that should be interesting.

I walked back with my roomie Claire, and we stopped at an EXTREMELY AUTHENTIC and UTTERLY BRITISH cafe, that was OH SO CULTURAL and NOT SUBWAY, and split a footlong spicy italian on wheat.

Got back, realized I had a missed call, called the number, then got a call back from an English bloke. I said, "Hello, I got a call from this number earlier." He said, "Aw, I 'ad this numba down fa a chap named Steve." "Um...nope." "Soure, love!" And he hung up.

In other news, I have offered to organize music for the Mass for the LUP (London Undergraduate Programme) tomorrow. Which wasn't the smartest idea ever, because I can't exactly play the piano. I can play broken chords in a panic, but I've never done this before on my own, and I don't exactly have a choir to work with. I chose an Opening Song, Offertory, Communion and Closing Hymn, and left the rest up to be spoken. Hopefully people will take pity on me and sing, seeing as the lyrics will be in the programme. This could be a disaster. Note to self: don't offer to do music without a confirmed pianist on call.

Tonight is a big "match." Manchester United is playing Arsenal. I think I'm supposed to root for Arsenal. The only thing I know about either team is that Orlando Bloom likes Man U. (Don't ask me how I know that. I was fourteen once.) So I think I may end up somewhere watching that game. Cheerio!

Day One of Consciousness, Or, An Excercise in Vertical Movement

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:

Spilly's Heroic Slam

Now, this has nothing to do with London. But it happened on the eve of the eve of my journey, and I happen to think it was a sign that good things are to come. Plus, it was the most magnificent night of my life so far, so this is what we're hoping to top.

Ryan Spilborghs is my favorite baseball player. He is an outfielder for the Colorado Rockies, my favorite team. Ryan is a goofball, and has a reputation for shaving his beard in the most peculiar ways, just for fun. I like him.

Last night we played the San Francisco Giants. When we started this series, they were tailing us for the Wild Card position in the National League (Wild Card = birth to the playoffs). We lost the first game but won the second two. Last night we were playing the fourth, either letting the Giants tie the series up or breaking ahead of the crowd and coming three games away from the Los Angeles Dodgers, who are at the top of the National League West. Translation: relatively big game.

Long story short, it's tied 1-1 in the 9th inning. And we got into a tenth. And an eleventh. And I'm sitting in the bleachers between left and center field, biting my nails, watching each out like it's a death sentence, losing interest, getting bored, getting excited again only to ground into a double play, etc. The night dragged on.

14th inning: Giants get three runs. Oh no. It's now 1-4, and there is no way we're getting out of this. I look at my friend and she says, "It's over. It's just over. We're not coming back." So the bottom of the 14th will be a formality. We sit there as the bases slowly fill, as Fowler hits the ball into his knee but we, being in the 14th inning, are out of players to put in, so he hobbles to first base on a walk. Torrealba gets a hit. Fowler hops to second. Bags loaded. Baby pitcher Eaton up to bat. Manager Jim Tracy tells him not to swing. Gets walked. Run walks in. Now 2-4. Spilly comes up to bat. Takes a strike. BOOM. Over the right field fence. GRAND SLAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The few fans that have stayed till the bitter end erupt in cheering the likes of which I haven't seen since 2007. We hug and dance and slap high-5's, and as I realize I just witnessed my favorite player perform a feat most players don't even dream of, tears begin to roll down my cheeks. I watch the mob of players dance around home plate, encompassing Spilly in Lodo love. The few fans that have waited the game out stand dazed, still cheering, long minutes after Spilly runs home. As we walked past the FSN broadcasting desk, a small mob begins cheering at the cameras. The anchors acknowledge our excitement and begin gesturing towards us. The camera man pans over my face just as we erupt into the cheer, "BEAT LA! BEAT LA! BEAT LA!" Tomorrow night, the Dodgers are coming to town!

On my drive home I turn on 850 KOA, "Rockies Radio." The late-night talk show host is taking callers, talking about the impossible game that just happened in Coors Field. After twenty minutes of a busy signal, I begin a parlay with the host about how Spilly is my favorite player, and to witness his game-winning walk off Grand Slam is something dreams are made of. We talk about sticking it out to the end, not leaving, even though the crowed thinned from about 27,000 to 7,000 by the very end. It was true grit, staying for my Rockies, hoping against hope when we were down three runs in the 14th that something maybe, just maybe would happen.

And it did. And my hero, whose shirt I wear and whose autograph I revere, became the toast of Denver at midnight, when in an act of true Lodo Magic, Spilborghs hit a grand slam, and the Rockies beat the Giants 6-4.

Things I Like About the British (Purely Anticipatory)

1. Hugh Laurie
2. Shakespeare
3. Tea. I do iced tea, but it comes from the same leaves. Right?
4. "Mind the Gap"
5. Birthplace of punk
6. I can dye my hair pink and still fit in. (So I hear.)
7. Public parks EVERYWHERE!
8. Going to the theatre in jeans

We'll see how many of these actually pan out.

I was flipping through my dad's old copies of "Wired" magazine and I found adds for a gaming site, Hellgate London, and the adds are headshots of people completely beat up and the scribbles on the bottom say:

"They kicked me in the teeth, tore my girlfriend in half and took away the sun. I'm going to London."

Or how bout the giddy, "They impaled my dog and drenched everything in blood. It's time to return some pain. I'm going to London."

And who would forget, "First I'm going to coat the streets with their bile, then I'm going to stack their rotten demon corpses on the sidewalks. And I'm going to enjoy it. I'm going to London."

Well, kids, looks like we're all going to London!

"Josquin! Come to London!"

So apparently I'm going to London. Notre Dame claims it, my friends keep saying goodbye, and my mother keeps buying me socks. So who am I to fight the times? After two years of anticipation, a nerve-wracking application, and nearly falling out of my loft while reading my acceptance letter (my roommate threw it at me whilst I was taking a nap) I will board a plane to Newark in one week, and then join my fellow Irish on an eight hour plane to London.

Now, last time I flew to London it was 2007, I had just graduated from high school, and me and my friend Margie were intent on celebrating our successful use of the private school system while simultaneously stalking Hugh Laurie. Well, we never found Hugh Laurie, but we did find the actor who played Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings musical smoking outside the back of the theatre. Which was almost as cool. Almost.

So here's the blog. I will attempt to update it as often as possible, but I very well might get caught up in the social scene of all that is Notre Dame in London, or fall into a steamy romance with an accented beau, or accidentally break into Parliament and be held in a British jail guarded by men in red suits with very large black hats in the shape of fuzzy q-tips. But I will do my best to bribe them into letting me access the internet so I can let you know where I am.

To life! To London! To Lord of the Rings!