London Calling

The Filliasco

2009-12-02T16:42:00.000-08:00

Okay, due to lack of blogginess in AGES, I am gonna do a full-court press. The goal: plugging em out as fast as possible.
First order of business: meeting my master.

I love Nathan Fillion. I am a full-blown Whedonite, and I encountered Joss Whedon (creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and its spinoff, Angel) through his short-lived, tragically doomed show Firefly, which I think is one of the greatest pieces of televisionary art ever produced. Nathan Fillion starred in it as Captain Malcolm Reynolds, a Han Soloesque leader of a band of misfits and defeated revolutionaries. They fly through space in their ship Serenity (Firefly class) smuggling goods, riding horses, brawling in saloons and generally being Big Damn Heroes. Nathan Fillion is currently busting up ratings as Richard Castle in the ABC show of that surname. (Surname: common Britspell for “last name,” used on everything, most notably entry cards into the U.K., which throw me off every time. Common usage: “What the crap is a surname? Claire?”)

Here’s a little background for you. Nathan has a MySpace. I created an account so I could friend him, so he would have to look at my profile picture for at least two seconds. Stalker points: 1. Nathan has twitter. I joined twitter so…I could follow Nathan. Stalker points: 2. Nathan tweeted that he was coming to London. I decided to study abroad here so…just kidding. That was pure serendipity.

RT:nathanfillion: London calling! The Guards Chapel Wellington Barracks, Nov 6! Come see http://www.completehero.com/ I will be there!! Can't wait to see you

Thus begins the greatest encounter/epic debacle with fame I have ever experienced.

RT:nathanfillion If you are coming to see me in London I want to know. Sound off for the Complete Hero project!

RT:me @nathanfillion I'll be there with some friends. How do you feel about catching drinks with some college kids from Notre Dame?

RT:me heading to the Globe for class. Highly anticipating meeting the Captain tomorrow night.

RT:nathanfillion Ahhh, Paddington. Just as I remembered you. http://yfrog.com/iydknj

And there was a pic of Paddington, which was, like, MINUTES from me via tube. I spend the entire day preoccupied with thoughts of Nathanness, our causal meeting, friendly chat, the invitation to get drinks at the Sherlock Holmes pub, instant friendship, advice on his character, an internship in LA this summer, etc.

RT:nathanfillion Sound off, London!!

RT:me @nathanfillion Welcome to the city - crisp weather just for you!

I had gathered a fine gaggle of geeks and interested onlookers – ten in all. We met at the ND centre and walked to the Guard’s Chapel to see Monsieur Filliohn!

We arrived and were handed headphones with which to view the public art project, a 25 min. video of people explaining what a hero means to them. Nathan had contributed and was attending the Gala that evening. The video was showing from 5 – 9. We got there at 5:15. And watched it. And waited. And waited. Finally I went up to one of the Army guys running it and asked when Nathan Fillion was going to arrive (no shame, none). Learned that the Gala would begin at 6:30. I gathered the troops (mine, not the Queen’s) together to deliberate.

We had about 45 min. till the Gala started, and then who knew when Nathan would arrive? Six peaced, not willing to brave the rain (yes, setting the scene nicely) to meet a man most of them didn’t know. So four of us were die-hards, true Flans, Whedonites with a mission undeterred. I looked around. Awkward looking kid in a brown coat standing near the bushes? He’s here for Nathan. Large, middle-aged woman with long hair and a goody bag? Yup, she’s here for Nathan, too. So we stand together, little blips of Jossy joy in a sea of otherwise upper crust Londonite Society here to view Art, braving rain, time, and nervous energy.

It was raining, hellza raining, and I refused to put on my fleece because who knows when Nathan will walk by and I am NOT having anything taint my perfectly chosen picture outfit. So we stood. And stood. And watched and stood.

Lo, from the depths of the crowd, giant in stature and sneaky under an umbrella, came The Captain. I spotted him, ran up and stood directly in front of him with a grin that would probably have cracked light bulbs. “HI…can I get a picture with you?” The ever-obliging master said sure and I fumbled with my camera. Think, think, something witty… “We’ve been waiting an hour and a half…” CRAP! WHAT THE HELL DID I JUST SAY THAT FOR?

“Well, then, let’s go!” I thrusted my camera at Mike. SNAP. No flash. Oh, crap, no flash and that was my one shot at the photo of my LIFE and now it’s gone and “Sorry can we take another the flash wasn’t on I’m so sorry Captain I kinda just blew your cover hold on here give it to me okay.” SNAP. Bam! Said the lady.

Nathan is now surrounded by flans who have come out of the woodwork. He is bombarded by snap-flashing folks all wanting their shot with Glory. I now feel awful, for it is becoming quite clear that all he wants to do is watch the project, whereas I have single-handedly ruined his anonymity. Oh, woe is me! To be such a beast! Might I grovel at the feet of one who shalt forgive!

He finally calms the crowd down enough to look up and watch the show. He stood there with his umbrella, next to his parents (am I that creepy? Did you really have to ask?) and watched it.

And then I did this. And then I felt bad. But not really.

There are moments, see, moments that come upon us which we do not anticipate or understand. They are the moments that define us, that separate us from the fantasy images we have created of ourselves. When I saw myself meeting Nathan, it was nonchalant, mutual, indoors. I was a calm, suave, educated person with interesting parlay and insightful witticisms. Instead I stood there in the rain, mouth hanging open, blatantly staring at Nathan like a large, uninhibited buffalo. I studied his nose, his chin, his coat. And in that moment I knew, knew beyond the shadow of a doubt, I am the creeper fan I always denied existed, that creature from my nightmares who chases celebrities down streets and sobs when they pelvic thrust. And I do believe, in my heart, that if Nathan had pelvic thrusted in that moment I would have passed out, weeping.

My next consciousness came when I realized that Mr. Mr. Fillion had walked out in front of Mr. Fillion to take a photo of his son. Mike and I, in complete synchronization, leaned right like a pair of Gumby characters in an attempt to get in the shot. Naught was said. We straightened back and continued to stare.

Soon the artiest who created the project came up and started chatting Nathan. He introduced his parents (“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M WITNESSING A REAL-LIFE CONVERSATION OF NATHAN FILLION”) and conversed wittily with the creator. (I know it was witty. I just know it.) Soon someone rapped the shoulder of the artiest and the Nathan convo was put on hold. This was our chance. “GO MIKE, GO!”

We ran around to Nathan and I thrust a CD in a plastic baggie at him. He looked down at it confusedly. “It’s a compilation – British artists – listen to it later!” (No, listen to it now, in the middle of the Gala. Stupid! Stupid!) For those who’ve asked, the CD was NOT a recording of me singing the Firefly theme song nineteen times. People, I am not THAT bad. Okay, I mean…

Mike asked if he could get a photo. I took it. Bam! Said the lady. Mike, smiling like a school boy but managing to keep some semblance of tact said, “Mr. Fillion, I’m a film major, and I just wanted to say that it’s people like you who remind me that the industry isn’t shit.” True, beauteous, flawless words. Words with meaning, forethought, and intent. Complimentary, even. How did he manage to find those words?

“Oh, where are you from?”

“I’m from Chicago–”

And then it happened, the word-vomit that was building up inside of me, my meek attempt at respectable communication. Something about Chicago reminded me of Notre Dame, and before I knew it “WE BOTH GO TO NOTRE DAME WANT TO GET DRINKS WITH US AFTER THIS YOUR PARENTS CAN COME I’VE TWEETED AT YOU MULTIPLE TIMES??!?!”

I should have been smote.

“Ah, we have plans.”

And thus, he departed.

I returned home wet, freezing, and with no voice. I had made a mockery of myself, bypassing any hope I’d had at avoiding being That Fan, the kind of fan that shames the Browncoat legion. I had met the Captain, but I had failed miserably in communication. But frustration was short lived, for the digital pixels containing The Photo burned luminously in my camera, and my heart was content. I got back into the flat and began to tell the tale, realizing quickly that I had no voice. None. Lost, gone forever into the void that was The Encounter. Do I believe in Karma? Dude.

The moral of the story is that I should never be let near anyone famous, or anyone I idolize. Because they might end up looking like this:

Nathan, who looks like he wants to eat me. Or push me off a cliff. Or eat me and then barf over a cliff.

Nathan Fillion, wherever you are, I am a fan. I am a creeper. I am a stalker. I have no shame. I know this now. But I still love you, and maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll reply to my tweet asking if you’ve listened to the CD.

Dublin, Anuna and the Alleluiah

2009-11-15T11:21:00.000-08:00

Being that I attend the great University of Notre Dame, home of the Fighting Irish, Ireland is near and dear to my heart. It’s impossible to attend the university and not gain some insights into the Irish culture, or a least a great appreciation for the isle itself (and I’m not just talking St. Patrick’s Day, here).

Why Ireland, you ask? Well, after we booked our flights to Istanbul, with intentions of traveling to Prague or Krakow or Cairo, we realized that one does not fly from Istanbul to Prague or Krakow, and flights to Cairo are the cost of a small elephant. So, what to do? Well, I was campaigning to take the train to Baghdad. (Plenty of cute American guys my age, right?) But for some reason, Claire and Dan vetoed it. How bout fly back to London and see where we could get from there? The choice was Ireland, to see Dublin and then go down to Wexford to stay with friends.

We packed up our stuff at the Birbs, checked out (Hello, here’s our key…that’s it for checkout? Can we stuff our bags with breakfast food now?) and made it down to the Tramvay. There was no spiffy shuttle this time, so it’s us & Kebab, the trusty suitcase, banging down the alley to the main drag. Three of us, with overloaded backpacks, Kebab, and The Hair, swerving past barkers and business men. We stuffed onto the Tramvay, switched to the Funicular, and got on the bus back to the airport.

Touchdown in London. And into Customs. “Hello, I’m an American, studying here, but I went to Turkey on holiday, and I actually gotta go catch a flight to Dublin…”

Then came the experience with RyanAir. Granted, the return flight cost us a pound (uno poundo) but still, the weight restrictions were a little ridiculous. Our 25kg bag for EasyJet had to get down to 15kg, and our carryons could only be 10kg. Cue the three of us unpacking Kebab wildly in the corner of Gatwick airport. Turkish coffee, love tea, and dirty laundry were unceremoniously stuffed into our backpacks. Dirty socks were crammed into the crevices between books and underwear went in plastic bags tied onto the front of backpacks. 20kg! 18kg! 16kg! JUST WEAR THE DAMN SWEATER!! Thus we created the incomparable image of Claire wearing every last warmer on her person, with her purse tied close and stuffed underneath three sweaters, giving her the look of a very large, pregnant woman. I had CD’s and my player stuffed into pockets and my bulky headphones around my neck, and clothes stuffed in the pockets of my fleece which was on top of my jacket. Thus we checked our pitifully empty Kebab, and thus we boarded the plane.

Because RyanAir is so cheap, they think it their responsibility to remind you how little you paid for the flight by making everything else you experience on the flight overtly painful. Such as the same ridiculously cliché 15-second piece of classical music looping from the minute you board till takeoff. It got to the point that I put my sound-cancelling headphones on and blasted my Irish prepatory music just to drown out the sound until takeoff, with the attitude of, I don’t care if I’m not supposed to listen to electronics, if I have to listen to this pap one more time I WANT the plane to crash.

I survived. We arrived.

After getting off the bus in the heart of Dublin, we began our midnight journey through its streets to our hostel. Many twists and turns (and Kebab bounces) later, we found it. Enter: My first hostel experience. We were staying in a six man. When we entered our room, we found one middle aged man asleep. He promptly awoke and greeted us. He was Polish. He began to regal us with tales for the next hour, till we made it very clear we wanted to sleep. Within this hour I made one fatal mistake: I mentioned I, too, had Polish ancestry. This made me his new best friend, and after I had climbed up into my bunk, leaned back and put my eye mask on, I felt someone tap my hand. I looked up and it was Polish Dude, who wanted kiss my hand goodnight. This thoroughly freaked me out. But eh, we survived.

Our day in Dublin was very fun. We started at Christ Church Cathedral, and were disappointed to find it, too, once was a Catholic Church but is no longer. Helas. It was cool, especially the mummified cat and mouse that fell into an organ pipe on display in the dungeon museum.

We then walked to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Fooled again! Church of Ireland. But it is right next to where St. Patrick (the Catholic) supposedly did some big digs. This is also where we met up with Emily, who also goes to ND but is studying at University College Dublin. Hooray, reunions!

Emily took us to Grafton Street. Now, if you are a Dido fan, this is when you cue up my favorite track from her most recent album, fittingly titled “Grafton Street.” The first thing Dan yelled when we hit it was, “This was in ‘ONCE’!” And indeed it was! We walked up and down the hippest walk in Dublin, looking at shops and ogling food. We stopped in for food and the BEST hot chocolate I have ever had.

Coors...like the ROCKIES!!!!!

Then we came to it, the eternal Dublin tourist attraction. The Guinness Tour. Everything I never knew I never wanted to know about beer. Now, I don’t particularly enjoy drinking a) because it tasted bad and b) because I don’t like what alcohol does to my body. Hence, why spend the money? So I walked through the building casually taking in how to make beer, trying to care…But it was great when we hit the Gravity bar, which has a 360 view of Dublin, which we hit as the sun was setting. I went to the bar, and ordered a Coke.

That night we went to O’Neill’s for drinks and then around to a few other pubs (names of which I can’t recall, but not for drinking – I had water everywhere we went). Back to the hostel, and getting to bed as quickly and quietly as possible to avoid waking up the Pole.

Entertainment at O'Neill's

Maggie Malloy - designed by a 13 year old?

The next morning we packed up and trundled through UCD, whose roads, I must say, were not made for rolly suitcases. After that we boarded the bus to Wexford, and an adventure of unbelievable proportions.

The two hour bus ride ended up taking four (or five?). I needed to pee at about an hour and a half. Jesus heard my cries of anguish, and to quell my inner turmoil, the girl who ended up sitting next to me was a student from UCD who lives in Wexford. The next few hours were spent picking each other’s brains about school systems, getting into college, pop culture, and our country’s perception of the other. She was one cool dude, and now we’re facebook friends!

The bus ride itself was beautiful. We drove next to the coastline for a good while. Ireland really is green – overwhelmingly so! Lots of sheep and hills. I will now take the time to explain exactly where we were going.

I am a member of the University of Notre Dame Folk Choir, a choir dedicated to liturgical ministry through the music of the people (“folk” music). The choir has had a relationship with the Diocese of Wexford for decades, and we’ve gone over to Ireland many times to give concerts and have established a relationship with their community. This year Notre Dame, with the help and support of the Diocese of Wexford, has established Teach Bhride (the House of Bridget), a liturgical initiative started by three graduates from the choir who now live in Wexford.

“Teach Bhride is a lay community of Christian men and women, dedicated to service of the Church of the Annunciation, Clonard, and the Diocese of Ferns, in County Wexford, Ireland. The community's labors are to be rooted in giving permission, especially to young adults and the disenfranchised, to explore and articulate their faith and their spiritual lives: this is to be accomplished by way of song, story, devotional and sacramental celebration.” – Teach Bhride weblog, http://houseofbrigid.blogspot.com/

They moved into their newly built house in August, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to go visit them and get the DL on their new digs since arriving in London.

Clonard Parish, with an American flag just for them!

We FINALLY arrived in Wexford and were greeted by Martha who shuffled us into a car. Fr. John Paul drove us up to his house (he’s the parish priest) and we went in. We were led into a back room and – BOOM – met with the most fantastic scene I have ever seen. Tables full of people and FOOD! The Bishop had blessed their house earlier that day, and there was a dinner to honor the project, attended by priests, parishioners, the director of the Folk Choir and his wife, and us measly college kids on fall break. Talk about perfect timing. I saw down and was immediately asked by a priest in an apron if I’d like red or white wine.

There were magnificent speeches from the Bishop and all those who helped get the project of the ground. I have never been so proud of my fellow choristers. I kept thinking, how did I get here? How did we pick this weekend, this evening to arrive, and end up sharing a meal with over twenty Irish people who have no idea who we are but want to feed us and talk to us and make us laugh?

After dinner we moved into the parlor/family room and sat around in chairs drinking whisky and wine. A retired nun brought our her accordion, and pretty soon the room was filled with music ranging from James Taylor and John Denver to Irish ballads and drinking songs. Penny whistles and guitar strings rang out and everyone joined it or added harmony. Who are these people? Where did they come from? How did I land here? Dan, Claire and I spent the evening with stars in our eyes, baffled beyond belief that we had just walked in upon such a fantastic scene, and that we could be privy to such musical events. That may have been the best night of my life. I don’t think I stopped smiling for seven hours.

The best part was that it was the strangest homecoming imaginable. Here I was in a place I’ve never been before, surrounded by people from what seems like an old life. My director Steve Warner, his wife Michele, our grad assistant Haley, all in from America brought with them stories of Notre Dame and the year’s events. I sat with Chris, Martha and Carolyn, my dear Carolyn, who had been my mentor through many trials and triumphs at school, now sitting upon two years of adventure in Ireland. Friends I had watched graduate I found once again, living their lives so beautifully and with such conviction in a little town I could have never imagined before.

The next day we received the Grand Tour of Wexford. And what should we happen upon? The weekend we visited was the weekend of the Wexford Opera Festival, and the town was all done up for the occasion. We popped into one of the twin churches and saw a choir rehearsing. We sat down, and about three minutes into it, it hit me – I’ve heard this group before…somewhere…and then as we were leaving, they started a song a definitely recognized! ANUNA! One of my most FAVORITE choirs, you may know them for their work providing the music Riverdance. And here they were, performing one of the songs off of a most prized album in my eyes. I sat back down and covertly recorded a few snippets under the pew. Fantastic. The concert? Sold out. No matter – I got my thrill!

That evening we went to Mass at the parish, and I joined the choir for the evening. I even got to play the tambourine for “How Can I Keep From Singing.” (Talk about utter musical fulfillment.) There was a reception afterwards with tea and some of the best little cake things I’ve ever had. Claire and sat and chatted with the ladies of the parish as Dan discussed something with another parishioner down the table. Claire and I kept looking at each other thinking, how did we get here? How did we land in the middle of this fantastic community, being offered food and music at every turn?

The evening ended at Simon’s pub, the pub of choice, which was hosting the evening’s Singing Pubs Competition for the opera festival. We packed in with what seemed like hundreds of the parish’s closest friends and listened to a song from each of the competitors, ranging from drinking songs to Irish ballads to O Mio Babino Caro. If we knew it, we joined in! It was after the competition ended that the most moving moment of fall break took place: one of the musicians began to play “Alleluiah,” and the whole pub joined in. The chorus rang with the impromptu harmonies of hundreds of Irish people, opera aficionados and three Americans. Thus our international adventure came to a close.

The next morning we woke up, suited up, and walked into town to catch the bus back to Dublin. All was well until we realized – we’re twenty minutes out and our bus leaves in ten! RUN! So here we go again. Couldn’t possibly make it through the trip without a panic run. Off we go, dashing through the streets of Wexford, banding poor, dreary Kebab over the cobblestones. “Claire, run ahead and tell him to wait!” She was off, leaving her scarf flailing in the wind. I grabbed it as me and Dan took turns throwing Kebab’s handle back and forth, darting passed tourists and townies. When we finally reached the bus stop, I ran up to the door and saw a woman sitting docilely in the front. “Don’t worry, you’re not late. The bus doesn’t leave for half an hour! Your friend is getting coffee.” I turn around and there’s Claire holding a Styrofoam cup, with a deadpan to be rivaled. Oh, well. It wouldn’t have been a real trip without a panic run.

So we made it. On the bus, on the plane, on the train to Victoria, and then home. Ten days spanning the entire continent of Europe (and even into Asia!). From the slums of Istanbul to the streets of Dublin, the Blue Mosque to Clonard Parish, these eyes will never be the same.

Istanballer, or, How the East Was Won

2009-11-01T06:42:00.000-08:00

A’ight kids. It’s been two weeks. I realize this is a long time to go without a post from your friendly neighborhood Londoner, but I was out of town last week (creating such adventures as shall be chronicled below) and spent this week sifting through the experience so that I can bring the most entertaining, up-to-date, informative, comedic collection of anecdotes and histories possible. Now, if that isn’t worth waiting for, I don’t know what is. (Don’t you like how I completely justify blog laziness by telling you I’m just awesome? Truth is yet to be seen…)

SO. We awoke Friday morning and took the tube to the train to Luton airport. Public transportation I great, it’s just…time consuming. You can’t just jump in your car and go somewhere. But we got to the airport, checked the bag, and waited to board our EasyJet flight. I will take this time to explain to you The Bag.

The Bag we took is one of Claire’s suitcases. We decided to bring one checked bag because, well, ten days in the same pair of jeans is just grody. Clair and I split it. Dan managed to get everything he needed into his backpack, which weighed about a ton and looked like a brick of steel. In Turkey we lovingly named our bag Kebab, and Trusty Kebab was dragged everywhere, on every form on transportation, from Asia to Ireland. So whenever we are traveling, you must imagine Kebab, the poor little brown suitcase, getting more and more busted up as he is chucked and tossed in and out of the back alleys of Istanbul and over the hills of Wexford.

We boarded the plane for Istanbul and I slept through the flight in a daze of unbelief and adrenaline bursts and utter fear. I have never been to a non-English-speaking country. Let’s just say, this was learning to swim by jumping into the deep end. Without water wings.

We arrived at Sabiha Gokcen airport midmorning. After changing money, we faced our first challenge: getting to the hotel. Shouldn’t be to hard, right? I mean, it’s a big airport, taking international flights….right? So here’s the issue: Istanbul is created out of three peninsulas meeting along the Bosphorous straight. There are bridges and ferries between them. Two are in Europe, one is in Asia. Guess where we were. YES. ASIA. WE FLEW INTO THE FREEKING ASIAN WILDERNESS. My dad had told me to “take a ferry to the other side of the Bosphorous at some point, just to put your feet on another continent.” Well, Daddy, WE HAD BEEN STOMPING ALL OVER ASIA FOR ABOUT AN HOUR. Who knew? (do Doo do DOO!) We had flown into the new airport, not the sixty year old, established Ataturk airport, which we had foolishly expected to arrive at.

A woman came up and asked us if we wanted to take a shuttle to our hotel. (Shuttle? Direct? Without creepy public transportation in Turkish?) We accepted and were loaded into a van along with an Australian backpacking couple and a German business man. We left the airport, pulled onto the freeway…and pulled over. “Five minute! Five minute! Sorry, my English not so good,” said our driver as he got out of the car. So, we were parked on the side of the freeway. For no apparent reason. This will be come a theme in Turkey: things stopping for no apparent reason.

Finally a car drove up behind us and two old ladies got into our van. Apparently, they wanted to shuttle, too, but the van had just left so we had to wait for them to catch up. Alright, this is unconventional, but not necessarily life threatening (except for the whole pulled over on the side of the freeway thing.) After dropping of the ladies at the Ritz Carlton (uh, yeah, not our stop) we got into our neighborhood in the old part of Istanbul. Let’s pause for a little Turkish histoire.

This city has been inhabited since Luke hit Endor, and will probably still be there after Whitefall is terraformed. (That just happened.) It became Constantinople when Constantine (no duh) moved the capital of the Roman empire there, which he had inherited as a Byzantine…or something historical. Byzantines rocked the peninsula for a few centuries, including through the Great Schism, whenceforth they were Greek Orthodox. Justinian, around the 8th century, decided to build a church, and ended up commissioning the most awe-inspiring architectural feat…ever, AKA, the Aya Sofya, or the Hagia Sophia. When the Ottoman Turks took over in the 1400’s, they converted everything to Mosques, including the Aya Sofya, and then build one to rival it, the Blue Mosque (St. Peter’s Basilica of Islam, maybe?). Ottoman Turks hung around the outskirts of Europe for a few centuries, until in the early 20th century Ataturk (“Father Turk”) pulled them into modernity, and called it “secularization.” Nowadays, there’s a bid to join the EU, women aren’t allowed to wear headscarves in Parliament and there’s a controversy over female students being allowed to wear headscarves within universities (since that’s against secularization, the policy since the thirties). Centuries of history, occupation by waves and waves of different people, and culture up the wazoo.

In other news, they just recently started using street names. And there are lanes, but nobody uses them. It's pretty much a free-for-all. So we get to our neighborhood area in Sultanahment (old Istanbul, one of the Euro peninsulas, not the hip one but the one with all the museums/tourist destinations). Our van driver yells out the window to a bunch of men asking for Hotel Birbey. They point him around the winding one-car-wide alleys until we arrive. Nice place for a couple of college students. Mostly occupied by Iranian couples who managed to give us death glares at breakfast every morning, and then a few confused German families. Our bathroom ceiling had a chronic drip right in the middle of the room, so you basically had to walk on the outsides to get to the sink, toilet and shower (slightly bigger than the Chokie).

Breakfast of Turkish Champions

Let’s talk about The Hair. I dyed my hair pink, as you know, but I didn’t really think about the fact that I was about to travel to a majority-Muslim country when I did it. So here I am, walking around Sultanahment with fuchsia hair, getting openly stared at by men in a culture where that is pretty taboo. I often walked by comments in broken English of “Hello I like your hair,” “You have pretty hair,” or “I like your hair color.”

Apple tea, the drink of choice anywhere and everywhere

When you walk down the street, there are barkers EVERYWHERE, asking you to come into their restaurant, look at their menu, buy their stuff, etc. Because we were so CLEARLY tourists, we were constantly haggled by everyone. Interesting thing, though. My hair, coupled with Dan’s ridiculous sunglasses, made us look particularly German. “Guten Tag! Hello!” Followed us a lot. Also, because people assumed we were from countries other than America and the UK, we got to act as if English was our second language, too, which made bartering a lot more interesting. If I didn’t like a price, I could just act like I didn’t know the word I was looking for. Playing a character made me feel a lot less obligated to buy things.

We were from different countries depending on the day. Iceland was our first choice. We went into a kebab café (Dan wanted to try some hookah) and decided we were students from the University of Reykjavik. This excited the manager a lot, and he came over to tell us he’d read in the newspaper about the issue we’ve been having with our pipes system. “Ah, yes, the pipes…tragic…” was all we could really say. Our waiter asked what the currency of Iceland was, and Claire brilliantly said the American Dollar, before I quickly corrected with the Icelandic Dollar. (Does anyone know what it's really called? Chrissy...)

The next day we were from Finland, ya. I had an accent the whole day. We attended the University of Helsinki. When one of the men at a spice stand in the Spice Bazaar asked us our names, I told him mine was Tarja (the name of the ex-lead singer of Nightwish, my favorite band, which happens to be from Finland). It made the pink hair all the more appropes. Funny thing was, though, after two days of being Finish I was stopped on the street by a man who asked me if I was from Finland. Apparently, word had gotten out…

First day there we went to the Hagia Sofia, the one place I had made a goal of getting to whilst in Europe (and the inspiration for the whole trip). It was kind of the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen with my eyeballs. Except for the whole big black structure taking up a quarter of the dome. They were renovating it and ran out of money, so they just sort of left it hanging out. For, like, forty years. Whevs.

There were many BRILLIANT mosaics, which had been uncovered after it was converted into a museum (after being covered when it was turned into a mosque). The whole building was like a history of religion in conflict. The mosaic of Gabriel was next to a large script name of Allah, and the Alter sanctuary area had been altered (jajaja) so that it pointed to Mecca, not Jerusalem. I stood where Empress Theodora sat during Orthodox services, and walked the halls where Sultan Mehmed II had led in the removal of Christian artifacts.

After that we went across the lawn to the Blue Mosque, a totally gorge building and, interestingly, the first mosque I’ve ever been in. (Go big or go home, right?) We didn’t have to cover our heads when we went in, but I’ll admit, I felt a little awk walking around with my bubblegum top. Interesting thing about mosques: there are no icons or pictures of any kind, just lots of intricate painting and tiling. It was very beautiful. There is not real alter or pews, just lots of luscious carpeting (which was nice, since we had to take our shoes off). The men prayed in the front, closer to the pointing-to-Mecca wall, and the women’s prayer area was in the back, behind the tourist corral. I borrowed Claire’s scarf and wrapped my locks up to go pray with the woman, and I slipped in for a minute to say an Our Father (am I allowed to do that?). It was very peaceful.

Next we it the Basilica Cistern. This cistern under the city was built by Justinian back in the day, and then just sort of forgotten. Fifty years or so ago someone realized people were getting fresh water from an unknown source, and many could just throw a fishing line down their water hole and come up with fish. Someone went investigating and BAM! A perfectly preserved cistern. What should we do with it? Slap a ticket booth on in and turn it into a tourist attraction, of course!

That evening we went to Taksim Square, on the European peninsula. We walked up and down the super-hip street, which was PACKED. Found the Catholic church, attended Mass in Turkish. It was kind of interesting to have gone to a Mosque during the day and ogled it, and then go to a church and see Muslims walking around, looking at the statues and icons. We went to a nice-ish restaurant and had the most amazing meal I have ever eaten. Then we got the check. Note to self: never let the waiter order. We thought we had ordered the cheapest items on the menu. Apparently not… So we were pretty much relegated to kebab stands for dinner for the rest of the trip.

Million Lira Meal

Well, actually only 123TYL

Next day we woke up, went outside and…were met by the largest wave of geriatric tourists I have ever seen. Thousands upon thousands moving slowly towards the museums, each with their Nokia cameras and Lonely Planet city guides. What had happened? Where did they come from? Their migration had even shut down the Tramvay. Then we realized: The Princess Cruise had docked last night. Oh, joy.

We went to Topkapi Palace, THE home of the Sultan for years and years. Basically, every Aladdin fantasy fulfilled. Actually, the stereotypes aren’t that far off. Sultan, Grand Vizier, Harem, the whole shebang. Saw everything from the fourth biggest diamond in the world to John the Baptist’s arm (does the Pope know about this?). My favorite thing: kiosks. They are gazeebo-esque rooms with couches and a fireplace, just sort of hanging out in the garden. They were named after battles. What a great thing to do! Hey, I just won an epic battle, and to commemorate it, I’m gonna build a KIOSK!! I’m gonna put some EPIC COUCHES in it so I can SIT AROUND ALL DAY!! I mean, these people knew how to party. Can you lounge in a statue? No. Note to self: when I rule the world, there won’t be statues honoring me, there will be puffy furniture everywhere.

Nothing says Harem quite like wax figurines.

I never want to see another tile as long as I live.

After the palace we went to the Archeological Museum. Now, I’m gonna make an observation here. Turkey is chock full of epic, historical places, and therefore artifacts from ancient history. They have SO MUCH OF IT they don’t even know what to do with it, so just sort of throw in into museums. We walked around bunches of sarcophagi just sort of hanging out in rooms, and hundreds of statues. Where are they from? How did we find them? What’s their significance? Dunno. It’s as if they keep digging them up and have so many they just ship them to museums. Maybe it’s because I’m from a place where mummies are so rare, so if you have one in a museum it’s a big deal.

Outside in the garden were a bunch of Grecian looking statues, many without heads. Which means photo opportunity, of course. I climbed up the back of one, wrapped my arms around it to steady myself, and felt something dusty in my hand…only to realize the statue was crumbling off into my palm. Which is when the Turkish security guard saw me. And scene…

After the hookah café (and the Icelandic Incident) we went to the shop of the first Turkish Delight purveyor. Now, I thought TD was gross, until I tried it in Turkey. TD is gelatinous squares covered in powdered sugar, and can range in flavor from cherry to pistachio. The original is rose, and it literally tastes like roses. We had a fantastic time picking it out, eating it at a table outside the shop, and having man behind the counter bring out more Turkish candy for us to sample, just because he liked us so much. (Hair? I was a bit of a novelty…) We walked back to the hotel through the ghetto of Sultanahment. I was getting pretty good at navigating our slice of the city.

Monday we went to the Kapalıçarşı (kapaleecharshee), or Grand Bazaar. It’s basically the biggest indoor shopping mall ever. There were hundreds of shops selling antique aladdin lamps and evil-eye jewelry. Twice I was stopped and asked if my hair color was natural. The first time I was like, ah, no. The second time it was most definitely natural, how could you ask such a thing? As we walked by stands selling scarves or Abercrombie knock-offs (seriously, Europe is obsessed with A&F, and forty year old men walk around in Hollister t-shirts – very strange) I would hear “Pink hair! Hello! Pink lady!” as every shop owner in 20 feet asked me to peruse his wares. I haggled a 45 lira bag down to 30, as Tarja from Finland. Bought a recorder tuned to the Turkish scale (harmonic, I believe).

After the Bazaar we walked (avoiding paying for a taxi/putting our lives on the line) to the Chora Church. It’s a chosque (church then mosque) from Constantine’s time that has some of the coolest mosaics ever (not that I really have much to compare it to). It was very interesting, especially since a good portion of the mosaics chronicled the life of Mary, as told in the proto-gospel of James. The best part was the Dormition of the Virgin mosaic, in which Jesus holds an infant, which is supposed to be Mary’s soul.

Baby Mary

Dormition of the Virgin

That night we went back into Taksim so Dan could try Raki, the Turkish drink of choice. We sat on the top of a restaurant and watched the city below, discussing film and futures.

Tuesday we took a ferry up the Bosphorous, and I saw the BLACK SEA WITH MINE OWN TWO EYES!!! We got on a commuter ferry that picked up from our side of Europe and dinged back and forth between it and Asia for a few good miles, finally ending at a small fishing village in Asia, far outside of Istanbul. We bought some baklava from a local bread shop and walked up an unnecessarily steep hill to an old Byzantine ruin, which apparently hadn’t been tagged for tourist attraction yet (it was free). We sat on a rock wall and ate our lunch (bread and eggs smuggled from breakfast, under the noses of the condescending Iranians, as usual). After lunch we decided to climb up the ruin as far as we could get. This process probably had the most intense I’m-glad-my-parents-aren’t-here-to-see-this moment, especially when I was dangling unaided from a vertical rock face. Good times.

It was upon this ruin that I realized something: We had done it. We had conquered this foreign city. I had followed a whim, a little blip of a thought that I had walking from South Quad to the library, in between O’Shag and Riley, that I wanted to see the Hagia Sophia. It had turned into a mission, which had turned into a trip, which had turned into the most epic journey of survival I have ever had. Every challenge I have faced in my life has been interpersonal or emotional. This is the first thing I have ever faced that was completely outside. It didn’t matter what I thought or how I felt, because we needed to get on the tramvay or find the church or get food, armed with nothing but a guidebook, a foldy map and pure cajones. I stood there, in Asia, looking at Europe, completely blown away by the fact that I had done it. I had come to Istanbul, wide-eyed and terrified, and in the midst of jeery looks and relentless barkers had managed to see everything, try anything, and generally have a great time in the process. I have never pushed myself so much or in such a way, and I think I can say I have never felt so proud.

After we docked back in Sultanahment we went to the Spice Bazaar, where we Finnished (jajaja). Bought some Love Tea and Turkish coffee. Far less crazy than the Grand Bazaar, with better smells. I bought a 5 lira headscarf. When I was trying it on, the guy was like, “Where are you from?” I told him Finland. He said, “You look American.” I said, “I have family in America. I go there many times.” After that we went back to the Turkish Delight store, to stock up on family gifts. (Don’t worry, ‘rents. I figured you wouldn’t like it anyway so I got you something better than what I know you would refer to as “weird jelly stuff from Turkey”).

We went back to the Birbs (as we lovingly called it all week) and packed whilst watching South Park again. I’ve never seen South Park before this trip, mostly because, as a Coloradan, I don’t really appreciate the stereotyping of our fair state as such. But it was one of the few things we could follow on the Turkish telly, so we watched it every night.

Wednesday morning we got up, checked out (which basically consisted of handing our keys to the guy at the desk and waving goodbye) and dragged Kebab through the back alleys of Sultanahment to the Tramvay (Tokyo packed, of course). We then dragged him, bouncing and flouncing, to the Funicular (two-stop subway, basically goes up a hill) and then to the bus, which took us back to the Asian Wilderness, and our airport.

"Oh, snap!"

Next stop was Dublin. More stories to follow.

Going to Istanbul! (Where is that?)

2009-10-15T15:59:00.000-07:00

Hey-o, kiddies!

Heading out tomorrow to the great meeting place of the East and West: ISTANBUL!! Fall break will be spent in the capital of Turkey. GOOGLE it. On Wednesday of next week we will fly to Dublin. (Did she just say Dublin? As in, IRELAND?) Why, yes, Virginia I did. We booked flights to Istanbul only to realize the only place we could really fly out of Istanbul was...back to London. So we picked another place to see on the back half! Hence, Dublin for two days, and then to Wexford to visit Teach Bhride, the House of Brigid! If you haven't heard about these guys (i.e., everyone who reads this who ISN'T in Folk Choir) check them out: http://houseofbrigid.blogspot.com/

So dearest, devoted bloggites, I wish ye well, because I won't be posting for the next ten days. But when I return, there shall be STORIES! PICTURES! TALES OF TRIUMPH AND WOE!! Well, hopefully not too much woe...

TO LIFE!! TO BYZANTIUM!! TO...NOT ACCIDENTALLY GETTING ON THE TRAIN TO BAGHDAD!!!

Taking in the view at Windsor Castle ;o)

But We All Speak Tolkienese

2009-10-07T11:07:00.000-07:00

HEYO AND HULLO FROM OXFORD!!

So AFTER the hair, we went to Oxford. Why? Well, there is really only one reason anyone goes to Oxford...TO PAY HOMMAGE TO THE GREATEST STORY TELLER OF OUR TIME!!!

And apparently there's a school there, too.

I will warn you, as I type this the Rockies are in the heated middle of the Division Series against the Phillies. I have purchased my MLB.TV International Post Season subscription, and I'm wearing my Spilly shirt. ALL THE WAY FROM THE UK - LET'S GO ROCKS!!

Last semester my darling friend Kaitlyn studied abroad in this singular city. (London, not Oxford. Yet.) After her return she compiled a notebook of journeys for me, from afternoons around London to daytrips in, say, Oxford. Thus the notebook, filled with directions and warnings, was held fast in hand.

During the bus ride back from Winchester I sat next to Jim. Jim's friends with a priest who is OBSESSED with Lord of the Rings (henceforth referred to as LOTR). Jim said he wanted to visit Oxford because his friend said Tolkien lived/is buried there. I said, thank God, because I've been looking for someone to journey with me there to geek out! And so we gathered a gaggle of similarly-minded folk (and some who just wanted to get out for the day) and booked a train to Oxford.

Saturday morning we awoke and began to walk to the tube station. I wore my LOTR sweatshirt and brown Aragorn cape (standard issue New Line Cinema costume piece). About half way to the station I said, "Now does everyone have the credit card they used to pay for the train tickets online with them?" Shock and horror ran through the group as Lauren realized she had left hers in her room. She bolted back to the flats. It was then that Mike asked if everyone has their "reference number." Reference number? Humma? Cue a string of college kids running a breakneck speed (did we budget time for this? Dude...) up Farringdon road. I'd like you to envision myself in particular, in full LOTR regalia, cape flying back, pink hair blowing in the breeze, running. And darling, I don't run.

Have we ever been able to go somewhere with a nice, calm, uneventful beginning? Or one that is free from all-out panic? Of course not!

We play pass the laptop and all get our number, run to the tube station, and get to the train station. We run to the ticket printer only to realize that Lauren and Claire wrote down their order number, not their reference number. And our train leaves in 3 minutes.

RUN RUN RUN to the ticket booth. HI WE WROTE DOWN THE WRONG NUMBER CAN WE PICK UP OUR TICKETS HERE OUR TRAIN LEAVES IN 1 MINUTE PLEASE??? "All of you?" "No, just us two, the others printed their tickets already." At this the man started laughing. "If you've printed your tickets already, you better start running, because you can't get a refund if they're printed!" AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Cue more running. OF COURSE our train is on Platform 10. The furthest from the ticket booth. I must say, I am getting very good at bounding around people. Or perhaps I am just shocking them into stillness. There are assets of maintaining a perpetually outlandish appearance. JUMP on the train! And lo, from the heavens comes the conductor’s voice. "We're sorry to inform you that the train is experiencing technical difficulties. We will be delayed." OH THANK JESUS! The rest of our gaggle appears, and we travel ensemble. On the train next to the one we originally boarded, of course, because the technical difficulties caused us to switch trains. We spent the ride playing telephone Pictionary (visions of Ohio).

We arrived in Oxford and detrained. We had not gotten but a MINTUE out of the station before a high-accented British woman asked me how to get to city hall. I'm such a native. Even though I looked at her like she had just asked me directions to Mars. "I...um...I've never been here...I can tell you directions to Mordor..."

We walked to the centre of the city and caught a bus going towards Wolvercote Cemetery. The driver told us where to hop off and we found ourselves...THERE.

There were about 50 of these guys dotting the path. Jim took a picture of every single one. And thus, we arrived.

I was thinking to myself, this may be the most epic moment of my life. I wonder how I should BOOM I started weeping. I dropped to my knees and wept. No preconceived thoughts, no trigger, just the weight of being next to TOLKIEN'S BONES. That man in the ground wrote the story that changed my life, in all ways cheesy and uncheesy. There are no words, people. My first true friendships were built on the ground he laid.

J.R.R. Tolkien wrote in depth about the history of Middle earth. Within his mythology is the story of an elf named Luthien and a man named Beren. Beren came across Luthien standing in a forest and fell in love with her. Theirs was a forbidden love, because she was immortal and he was a man. They defied the confines of their races and wed. Their relationship closely parallels that between Aragorn and Arwen.

Tolkien's wife Edith died before him, and when he buried her he had the name Luthien written beneath her name. When he died, they put Beren beneath his.

The real weight of the gravesite is that it is covered in fresh flowers and thank you's. His books were published in the 1940's, and people are still being touched by them. People from all over the world (signaled by the thank you's in different languages) come here to pay homage and to leave something. The real affecting nature of this place is not that it is where Tolkien is buried, but that it shows LOTR fans are not alone. Other people feel the way I do. Other people care.

We also creeped our way to Tolkien's house. Kaitlyn's directions in the notebook were, specifically, "STEPHANIE REIGN YOURSELF IN SOMEONE LIVES HERE. Pay quite homage and leave." Thus we did.

We then toddled around the school itself. 38 independent colleges. It was during our walking tour of the college area, in between Anglican this and Once-Was-Catholic that, that Jim uttered the immortal words, "#*&$ing Henry VII, Josquin. This could have been OURS!"

Dinner was had at the Eagle and Child, AKA, The Bird and the Babe, AKA, where the Inklings met. The Inklings were a group of authors that included Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. They ate and exchanged stories, shared essays and gave each other criticism. How much would I pay to be able to go back in time and sit in on a meal with them? First born work?

And a good time was had by all.

Pinky in the Zoo

2009-10-04T14:15:00.000-07:00

Catchy band name, eh?

This is the story of a girl who always dreamed of having fluorescent hair. This girl once bought a wig of pink, and wore it oft, finding any and every reason to wear it in public. It also made a number of appearances (three, to be exact) at Harry Potter release parties, from Barnes and Noble to the Tattered Cover, as the key piece for producing the venerated visage of Nymphadora Tonks.

So this girl dreams of one day creating such a mane, dying blonde locks a rosy shade. Nay, say her elders. So she bides her time until one day realizes that whilst in a foreign land, she will be free from those who may dislike the look. After obtaining the blessing of her parents (“Do whatever you want to your hair over there, just come back looking normal”) she seeks out a stylist and goes forth to fulfill her greatest cosmetic desire.

So last Wednesday, I dyed my hair pink.

I chose to do it at a salon called Sanrizz which is along my walk to school. I inquired about a dye job, got a price quote and prepared for D-Day. When the day had finally arrived, I armed myself with Tonksqesue confidence and strode into the salon after class.

A stock photo of a Sanrizz Salon

My hairstylist was a guy named Ben. Ben is a little taller than me, has a very stylish, side-shaved-with-flippy-long-on-top-hair-yes-I-do-hair-hair, a gauged ear, and lots of tattoos. (Mommy, just Google “gauged ear.” Actually, no. Do not Google that. Stay far away from googling that.) Basically the perfect person you want dying your hair the color of a fluorescent flamingo. First he bleached it yellow-white. After he washed it out, I tipped my head out of the basin, looked in the mirror and realized what I would look like as an alien. With mutant eyebrows. Then came the first wave of pink.

During this time the salon speakers were playing an array of American pop-punk, from Paramore to Green Day. I felt particularly interesting when the line “Don’t want to be an American idiot” came on just as Ben was telling me that if the dye causes all my hair to fall out, that’ll teach me to be rebellious. Crap.

I spent the hours dying and washing and dying (the color comes in waves) reading the book a bought a few weeks ago, “Moab is my Washpot” by Stephen Fry. I have been a fan of Fry ever since I met him through Hugh Laurie, the genius doc who runs my household. (Literally. My family’s entire week is built around a community viewing of House.) I became obsessed with Hugh Laurie, ran through his filmography and right into “A Bit of Fry and Laurie.” YouTube it sometime. It’s like SNL, but funnier. So when I saw Fry’s autobiography for 3lbs in HMV (the black whole of music and books that ceaselessly consumes my stipend) I bought it right away and have been picking at it in between classes and on buses and trains. It’s a fantastic look at the life of a boy growing up in upper-middle-class England, while at the same time being outwardly hilarious. There have been many moments when riding the train I have let out a lone “HAH!” because of a certain line or wording that Mr. Fry uses.

But when Green Day’s “American Idiot” came on in the middle of a hair salon in London, I had to put the book down and comment. This started Ben down a long road of conversation in which he explained his love of poetry, his work with “spoken word,” his description of some of the top spoken word artists around today, and his dreams of one day opening and owning a spoken word poetry venue. He explained his current work writing poetry about Hitler (“The man just fascinates me”) and how American punk has long run past its glory days of lyrics story telling. He even ran into the back room and came back with a list of British artists and bands I had to listen to for their lyrical value.

At this point we had done two washes of the pink, and at best, I looked like a mermaid. At worst, it looked like someone who’d had an entire strawberry milkshake had barfed all over my head. Three hours, three washes and two stylists after I walked in we decided we could do nothing else that day and I was told to return on Friday. I walked home with the gait of triumph, trying not to think about the fact that I had just thrown myself head-first (yup) into the rabbit hole, and the only thing to do was keep going.

I do my best to keep the internet creepies at bay. Thus far I have prided myself on using interesting angles to avoid overly informative shots, but it's kinda hard to pull off with the hair. So, here's looking at me.

I returned to my flat in triumph (it wasn’t that bad) and lots of photo-taking. That evening we hosted a dinner for one of our professors, Cornelius O’Boyle. It was an evening of good food and better conversation (and we didn’t spend the entire conversation talking about the food! Progress!).

Friday meant two things: my second hair appointment, and the Zoo! After class I joined the group of ten who had signed up to ogle animals in the afternoon. We walked through Piccadilly Square, up Regent Street and through Regent Park. Ah, the London Zoo. Best Zoo I’ve ever been too.

All photos were taken by yours truly, camera courtesy of Lauren. Cheers, chica.

Amanda, this is for you:

The great thing about the London Zoo is that a lot of the exhibits are open, as in, you walk into a caged area and see the animals all around you, like Mr. Monkey here. The ropes lined the path and went overhead, and monkeys crawled all over them!

It's...RUFUS!!!

I don't know what this means, but it's got to have some comedic value:

My mother in the morning:

When I saw this bird, I bent down and said, in my best sveedish accent, "Oh, you are GORdeus!" I named him Crupi.

PUMBA!!

My favorites were the Giraffes.

Disney Princess Moment: the lonely giraffe, longing to leave the palace and explore the outside world...

Otteriffic!

And now, to warm the cockels of your heart:

I only saw a fraction of the place, but it was great.

After the zoo, I returned to the salon for one last go at pinkifying my crown. Helas! No dice. Ben had someone print me out a map to the nearest salon supply store and told me of a self-dying product that I could use that would, instead of working into my too-pourus hair, just stick on top of it. I took the paper, bid farewell and began my journey of self-inflicted fluorescence. Dice! I got back to the flat Friday night and began the process of dying my hair pink.

I thought it odd that I had started at the salon and was demoted to the bathroom color, whereas one usually attempts it at home and then submits to the salon for damage control. I stood in our bathroom and combed fuchsia goop into my hair for about half an hour. Kelly, bless her heart, came in and finished the process. After letting it sit, Claire helped me wash it out, head first in the Chokie. The floor of the Chokie now has a lovely, rosy tint. And my hair has more than that!

YES!! YES!!! MY HAIR IS PINK!!! JUST HOW GOD INTENDED!!!!

The great thing about London is that pink hair isn’t that weird. I see someone about once a week with a full head of shocking flamingo hair, and it certainly isn’t the weirdest thing on the street. No one does a double take or stares. (Except for children, but that’s a good thing.) The people I’ve caught gaping? My fellow students! The profs all love it – it’s the kids who are shocked!

Finished Product: (Forgive my artistic liberties)

As I Liked It!

2009-09-27T16:47:00.000-07:00

I fully and dutifully apologize for a week severely lacking in blogginess.

It was a work week. The programme was inundated with tests, papers and “essays.” (No one here calls it a paper, it’s always an essay, and the length is prescribed by word count, not page, which makes fudging quota slightly more difficult. Ah, well, constriction breeds creativity.)

I had a philosophy paper due (Natural Law According to Me) and a Shakespeare essay due (Helen vs. Helen, From Page to Stage). I am pleased to announce I survived both.

I knew I was blogging too much when, on Thursday, arriving early to my class, I walked through Trafalgar Square and past the Fourth Plinth, where this activity is taking place:

For example:

On the plinth was a girl doing yoga, and beneath her on the ground a man was leading people in sun salutations. It looked like he was leading whoever happened by, including lots of business people who happened to have yoga mats in tote. I was about to pass it by when I thought, this could be a good blogging story, and I dropped my bag and onto all fours. I joined the unmatched mob for a while until one woman, whose abandoned baby started crying, offered me her mat. After about twenty minutes of breathing in and out of the nose, stretching myself temperedly, and doing my best to stay balanced lest the camera-happy Asians who were taking shots of us from all sides get a sloppy photo, it dawned on me: I’m standing (well, curving and balancing) in the middle of Trafalgar Square, on some random lady’s mat, in the middle of the morning, sun shining, with a bunch of random Londoners, doing YOGA. And it felt AWESOME.

I walked into class and I was like, “Yeah, I just did yoga in the middle of the square. Yeah, I’m that hip/random/lucky.” Basking in my own glory. (What else is new?)

This weekend, our class went to Stratford-upon-Avon. Cute city. I’m lovin’ this English countryside. I’m becoming accustomed to being bussed all over it during the weekends, and when these day trips stop, they will be sorely missed.

We unloaded and were greeted by the Bard himself. (Why does everyone call him the Bard? Was it a nickname that stuck? Is he just the most famous of them? Did kids pick on him in school?) The statue was lovely, surrounded by four of his most famous characters. The portrayal of Shakey himself seemed to say, “Yes, I know, I am all that.”

There was a street market on the way to the Birthplace of the Bard. I’m becoming quite good at navigating these little towns. It’s very funny: Starbucks interspersed with pubs celebrating their 800th anniversary.

We saw the house Shakey was born in! No time to go in, though. By the way, special shout out to my flatmate Kelly, who let me borrow her camera for the day (“I CAN’T GO TO THE MOTHERSHIP WITHOUT A CAMERA!!”) so if you see her, tell her how much you appreciate what she did to spice up this blog.

There were remnants of the house Shakey bought for himself after fame/fortune arrived. Unfortunatly, the guy who moved in after him got so sick of tourists peaking around his bushes that he tore the house down, just to spite folks like me.

We also saw the Church for which Shakey's father oversaw the anti-Catholicization. Notice where the Catholic iconography once was. You can even make out a castle in the left corner.

Next stop was the grave. The Grave. But some STUPID COUPLE DECIDED TO GET MARRIED IN THE CHURCH, which houses the tomb, so we couldn’t go in. THANKS, happy couple. You kept me from communing with The Master, I wish you MANY FAT CHILDREN.

The area around the church was beautiful. The graveyard went all the way to the river (Avon). (Hence the Stratford-on-it-ness.) I resisted any and all urges to Buffyize the area, running around/over/through gravestones with a stake in my hand. It took a lot of control. I mean, LOOK at it. Joss would have KILLED for this set.

Can you imagine? Joss + Shakespeare = the most beautifully told, poetic, musical, meatily-charactered, well-metered multi-media story this world has ever seen. Did you just…? Yeah, you did. As did I.

After the epic fail/extreme exercise of self control that was the graveyard of Holy Trinity Church, we were free to roam. I opted out of the pubbing (who wants to sit inside the dark and drink when you are TRODDING WHERE SHAKEY TROD??) and instead wandered around the area. I ran into a girl in my class and our conversation went like this:

“Do you like Shakespeare?”
“Yeah. Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you like Firefly?”
“Yeah. Do you like Firefly?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s be best friends for ever and ever and ever.”

I was getting hungry so we wandered back toward the market, where I purchased a pork sandwich, made from pork pulled off of a roasting pig hanging directly in front of my eyes. Throw it on a bun with stuffing, cover it in apple sauce, and you’ve pretty much got exactly what Thanksgiving tastes like.

Last stop: The Theatre. We followed the masses to the temp venue (as they re-work the offish one) and took our seats. I was seated next to one of our Profs, who happens to have raised ducks this summer. I told him how my mother dressed me up as a duck for every Halloween until I could tell what she was doing, and we instantly bonded. Ducks are a mysterious, powerful animal that can really bring folks together.

This is a CONTRABAND PICTURE!! I was fully chewed-out after taking it. Totally worth it, to bring it to you. Do you see how much I love you?

“As You Like It” is about a chick who gets banished, dresses up as a dude and runs away into the forest. The Joan of Arcian fan in me was pre-dispose to like it, but kids, I LOVED it.

I LOVED THIS SHOW. I LOVED IT LIKE I HAVE NEVER LOVED A PLAY BEFORE. I have done a few plays in my life, and seen a few more than that. I am extremely judgmental, and though I’m willing to concede much to be entertained, I judge. Boy, do I judge. But, ladies and gentlemen, I HAVE NEVER SEEN A SHOW SO WELL DONE/ACTED/PRESENTED/COSTUMED/DIRECTED/DONE EVER EVER EVER. I was so excited at intermission (interval, half-time) that I couldn’t WAIT for it to begin again. When it ended, I was so simply PLEASED that I started tearing up. For no reason, no sadness or ecstasy, just FEELING. It made me feel so much. It touched something, tickled somewhere, and hit every single note. I loved every single character. Even William, who has about two and a half lines, made an unanticipated positive impact. IT. WAS. SO. FUNNY. Every character had their timing down, and God, it was good. I felt like they got it like I would get it, they presented it like I would want it presented. I felt so comfortable watching them. It was EXCATLY how it should have been done – everything. And you know how I know it was all that? Because I can’t put my finger on why it was so good, or why it touched me so much. I have no idea why it clicked. But it did. And it blew my mind.

There’s a part, right before the interval, where Orlando decided he’s going to write praises for Rosalind all over the forest trees. As I walked into the foyer, I realized that verses of poetry had been tacked up all over the theatre, inside and out, including all over the set when I went back in. On my way out of the theatre after it was over, I grabbed one. This is what it said:

“You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!”

Eerily fitting. Tell (clap) it (clap) again (clap)! Tell (clap) it (clap) again (clap)!

That evening I returned home, beaming on the inside. I was so…touched, that I looked up one of the actors and found his email (are we sensing a trend?) and shot him one telling him how inexplicably enjoyable the show was. I’m pushing my luck here, I know, but hey, last time I emailed one of my betters, I got a reply from the lead singer!

Weekend hit an all-time high when I received the mix CD one of my friends has been attempting to send me for about a month. From internet file-sharing to converting mp3’s, this whole it-takes-a-billion-dollars-to-mail-you-anything-bigger-than-a-postcard thing is getting really old. But I got it! And will been listening delightedly for days.

Sunday began with Mass at Westminster Cathedral (children’s choir, as if the place could get any sweeter) and then Flat Bonding Activity of Non-Disclosure (don’t worry, no drinking or anything like that). Dinner followed by The Unavoidably Addicting Cookies. We’re on our third batch. It’s getting chronic.

Pretty manageable week ahead. I’ll be blogging more regularly, I promise.

Jane Austen Broke My Camera

2009-09-20T14:51:00.000-07:00

I knew that bitch was cold.

Ever since sophomore year of high school, when we were assigned to read "Emma" over the summer, and I spent every minute of that book wishing I could rip my eyeballs from their aching, bleeding sockets, I knew Jane Austen would bring me nothing but pain. Slow, pounding, overly dramatic pain. Kind of like the monster in the pit of sand that Jaba the Hut tried to feed Han Solo to in "Return of the Jedi." Except with flowery language. And dresses.

But let's start at the beginning. This Saturday I went on the ND organized "Jane Austen Trip." My motives had nothing to do with Jane Austen, but with the prospect of getting out of London for the day and see the country. And they advertised a cathedral on this trip. As we all know, I'm a sucker for cathedrals.

We bussed up and drove to Winchester, and toured the Winchester Cathedral.

Built by William the Conqueror

about 1000 years ago

now Anglican, but Catholic saints have been restored

original medieval tiles, too

It was great. I love walking where Catholics billions (okay, thousands) of years ago walked. It's almost paralyzing to think I am praying to the same God in the same way that they did a millenia ago. I got about as giddy-geeky as I do when a new "House" comes on.

Then we got to Jane Austen's grave. Or should I say, stone in the floor. Note, when you read the epitaph, there is no mention of her being a writer. Still inapprops in her time.

This is about the time that my camera started to tank. Since Edinburgh, when it got tossed in the bottom of my backpack into the bottom of the bus, it's been persnickety. The lens doesn't really feel like opening or shutting anymore. Hence, closing the camera is like doing a salsa to a song in 5/4 time. I tried to keep up with the steps as long as possible, but eventually I had to leave the dance. But that didn't stop me from attempting to close the camera, igniting a series of unhappy burps from the lens that sounded like "GAKGAKGAKGAKGAKGAK" before it belched and gave up, blinking at me innocently as if to say, I'm sorry, I just can't take this anymore. In my indignant fury I attempted to close the camera a number of times, receiving the same series of burps followed by a degraded wheeze about every 16 seconds. Pretty soon I was slapping the lens on the front while it was gakking, trying to shock it into submission. I did this every time our tour guide moved us on to a different post, trying to wrestle incognito, turning sideways and holding it under my sweatshirt as I bopped it on the face, silently willing it to close and shut up. These attempts, of course, were for naught, because not only did my camera refuse to close, it also echoed, belching throughout the space with a force that would have put Molly Leer's fantastic display of female digestive regurgitation during Regis's Sophomore retreat to shame.

I did manage to get some final shots, though.

Original medieval arch thingies

Original paintings of religious scenes (ORIGINAL!! I LOVE THAT WORD!!)

Original Baptismal Font AND THIS IS THE FIRST RECORDED...RECORD OF A SHIP WITH A RUDDER!! Look closely - there is definitely a rudder on that ship. First time we know of anyone bothering to note them. Yup. A replica is on display in the British Naval Museum. (Next to the display on belly-button wax. Well, my flatmates laughed.)

It should be noted that the last picture my poor camera ever took was the shot of Jane Austen's grave. During its last lucid moments I ran through the cathedral snapping photos of everything I had missed, and the grave stone was the final shot...pity.

Next stop was the house of Jane's brother. This is probably the most picturesque English Countryside Scene one will ever find. I would show you images that may have helped you visualize it, but...JANE AUSTEN'S COLD DEAD BONES FRIGHTENED MY CAMERA TO DEATH. Just imagine the movie Pride and Prejudice. It's pretty much EXACTLY like that. The house itself was gorgeous, perfectly preserved and fully functional. Conferences are held on the estate, and anyone can come and visit for the day.

After the Estate we went to Jane's actual house. I saw the desk where she wrote all of her novels. It was quite small. Now, close you eyes and imagine that. Good. There was also an ORIGINAL Clementi piano from back in the day, and I played it. (!!!!) Lots of copies of all of her novels. Most of this was lost on me, but I saw my friend Katherine, an Austen de-vo-tee, walking reverently around the garden with her hand on her chest, breathing deeply. As far as religious experiences go, to each her own, I suppose.

The past 24 hours have been filled with an overabundance of good food, with steak smothered in bleu cheese and croutons last night, nutella french toast after Mass this morning, and home-made pizza for dinner tonight (each made in conjunction with either Kamen Flat 10 or Minerva Flat 8). No class tomorrow - SLEEP!!! And a philo paper.

Cheers!

The Camera Doesn't Know It's Broken

2009-09-17T16:42:00.001-07:00

Shots from my days, to make up for the essay of the last post.

Sitting on my train to High Wycombe. I love this shot. There is something just so evocative about TRAINS, and it's quite interesting living in a country that survives by them. People would much rather take a train into London than drive their car.

Walking over the Thames to the Globe.

Now, in your best Pocahontas voice: "Just around the River Thames!"

People walking over the Millennium Bridge.

The Glory Moment. Stewart Copeland, ladies and gentlemen.
Look at the interest in his eyes! LOOK AT IT!
I think I was saying something like "I'mamusicmajorandyouarethemostimportantmusicalinfluencorofmylifeiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou..." Or something like that.

When It Rains, It Pours, Especially If You're Polish

2009-09-16T00:40:00.000-07:00

No pics this time (sorry, Kaitlyn) just a story. Hopefully a GOOD story. A story of my first encounter with this blasted English rain and the ruination (or adventure) of my evening.

First off, it should be noted, that in my specific case, the irony will always be as great as possible. Hence, on the rainiest day London has experienced in the past 500 years (so I say) I will be wearing nothing other than leggings and a short skirt, a short sleaved dress shirt, and a leather jacket, whilst carrying a mock-leather un-close-upable bag, whose umbrella I will have extracted that morning due to lack of use. And my shoes will be ballet flats. Of course.

SO, lovely day, many classes, watched a great/horrendous film called "Mischief Night" about drug dealers in Leeds. (Comedy. Hilarious. Bogie - pick this one up and watch it with yourselves.) Went to Mass in the itty-bitty chapel on the fifth floor of the Centre. (Not the fourth. I donna ceer ha mani times theh sah ootherways. The floor you walk in on is the first floor, not the ground floor. The second floor is the second floor, I don't care if you want to call it the first. Note: Assimilation has never been my strong point.)

Eventually the time came to round up and go to the Orange Tree Theatre (at least I think that's what it's called). Me and my flatmate Claire bummed tickets off the Intro to London Theatre class to go see a play called "The Ring of Truth" (whatever you're imagining, stop). The theatre is far away, in a magical land called Richmond. We bought dinner at Pret a Manger (yes, mother, I know what that means) and boarded the Tube. Note: the whole time we're doing this, it's raining. Not bad, just consistent.

We squeezed onto the Tube with the masses. Now, it wasn't just crowded, it was Tokyo crowded, like, you don't get to move your arms because you might accidentally butter-cut someone. I was travelling in a group of four, and I used the crunch time (literally) to explain the plot of an episode of Bones where a pedophile mummifies girls in subways because it's the only place with a consistent flow of warm, dry air. I'm sure all those in listening distance of me really enjoyed it.

About half way there, the Tube decides to crap out. Well, the track, I suppose. We get alerted that, due to flooding, the train is being rerouted. Far far away from the magical land. We get off and meet up with the other eight or so ND kids who were in a different car headed the same place. We're all hanging out on the platform, which is above ground, under the overhang, waiting for another train to Richmond to come alone.

I took this time to eat my dinner. I bought a baguette (I can never write that word without reading it bag-wetty) with brie, tomato and basil. One of the greatest things about this country is that they put brie on everything. I also bought a "Chocolate Mousse" cup thing. Now, I was expecting to enjoy it, but I was not prepared for the potpourri of unmeasurable delightedly chocolate deliciousness that exploded into my oral cavity. If you are anywhere near a Pret A Manger, you must go, right now, and buy a cup of chocolate mousse. Buy ten. If you can't get to a Pret, get on Amazon and stock your fridge and your bathtub. And steal your neighbor's bathtubs and fill those, too.

That was the highlight of my evening, eating that chocolate mousse on the platform in the rain, if that gives you any idea of how the rest of the night is going to go.

Then someone had the brilliant idea to take a bus to the mythical land of Richmond. We poured out of the tube station and onto the streets, feet slapping the wet cobblestones and umbrellas bumping and bobbing above our motley mob. We heaved into a bus bound for Richmond and were once again transported to Tokyo. Apparently we weren't the only ones with the bus idea.

So I stood. And stood. Mashed up against the side of a bus window. I put in my earbuds (NOT ipod earbugs - SONY earbuds. Fight the man.) and listened to Imogen Heap's new album (more on why this album is singularly defining my experience later). I got through the entire album. So, after 90 minutes on the bus, sloshing through streets and the mind-blowing speed of about three feet a minute, everyone in the bus has pretty much become a fan of the Notre Dame Experience. See, unlike most Brits, L'enfants de Notre Dame tend to TALK while using public transportation. So everyone knew our plight and our personage.

AFTER AN HOUR AND A HALF OF WATCHING RAINDROPS SLIDE DOWN THE WINDOWS OF A STEAMY, OVER-CROWDED BUS we arrived at the theatre. The prof met in the lobby, for we had arrived just as it was hitting intermission (interval, half-time, what have you). He immediately began with, "You poor DEARS!! You must feel DREADFUL!! Your journey must have been JUST awful, how HORRID for you to go through that I do hope you will enjoy the rest of the show I fee just TERrible."

The second half was pretty much all you needed. The show it self was a drawing-room comedy/thriller. It was 1950's England and...bad. Old people laughing at jokes I hadn't the chance of the Diamondbacks in the postseason at understanding. Kind of like Arsenic and Old Lace, but less funny. The only redeeming factor was the cook's Polish husband, who ran in furious because his wife had been investigated by the police.

"Why you hateah de POLES? EVEREbody HATEAH de POLES!! When I comma to dis countreh, I WORK HARD. I marry my wifa, and she WORK HARD. Why you suspect her? Because I am POLISH!! BECAUSEH YOU HATEAH DE POLES!! We are ALWAYS ANGRY!! From BIRT, we ANGRY. In de WOMB, we ANGRY! YOU! You wear HORN-RIMMED GLASSES!! You areah a COMMUNIST!! ANDEAH YOU HATEAH DE POLES!!!"

Basically, it was like watching my mother on one of her my-family-came-to-this-country-from-Poland-with-nothing kicks. Very entertaining. I was positively HOWLing, causing most of the audience to look up my way. Oh well. They clearly did not grow up hearing about the greatness/plight of the Polish heritage. Their loss.

After the show we scrambled to a train station and...well, I don't really remember. At some point we took the tube. I had to buy a ticket somewhere. Oh, well. At this point I was pretty much a sad, wet lemming. But I did get home.

Last night I saw Troilus & Cressida at the Globe. FANTASTIC. Terrible in the reading. Wonderful in the watching. Now off to The Comedy Club for an evening of stand-up for my alternative poetry class.

A Castle, a Clan, a City and a Song

2009-09-13T06:28:00.000-07:00

On Friday night, my roommates Eileen, Claire, and Lauren and our hallmates John and Sunil set out to find Aldgate Station, from whence we hoped to travel on an overnight bus to Edinburgh. I packed up my backpack, brushed my teeth and put in my retainer, ready to take on the world and my first real college-backpacking-adventure. It was only for a day (night bus back Saturday night) but it had the makings of an adventure the likes of which I have only dreamt.

Background: I am 25%ish Scottish. My mother has oft expatulated about Clan Baird, and how one of our own invented TV. I never really understood/cared until, of course, I found myself in Scotland desperately seeking to claim heritage.

Second, earlier that week I had heard that my second favorite currently-active band Carbon Leaf (Favorites in Order: The Police [inactive]; Nightwish [active]; Carbon Leaf [active]) was performing at Notre Dame, which means of course I would miss it. I. Was. CRUSHED. (grr irony grr.) BUT! In an act of unparalleled chutzpah I found a general email for them on their website and emailed them that they HAD to play a song for me, because the timing in this world is too cruel.

Third, when I am tired/smelly/gross looking I don't anticipate guys hitting on me. When it's 12:30am at a bus pit stop, I don't anticipate guys hitting on me. And when I am tired/smelly/gross and stretching my legs at a bus pit stop at 12:30am, I figure I'm just about as attractive as a mouldy beetroot.

But back to Aldgate. Now, I'm of the opinion that this "bus station" (as it calls itself) doesn't exist. I've never seen it. I spent an hour and a half running around central London looking for it Friday night, and it never appeared. The pre-bus travel was one of those situations in life when you know too many chiefs won't bode well for travel bonding, so I lemminged my way around and let everyone else decided where we were going. I tried not to be bothered when our departure time came and went, and so when Aldgate inconveniently disaparrated to Tahiti, I was down for taking a taxi to Victoria Station and meeting the bus there for its second leg.

We met the bus, boarded, and attempted to sleep. I say attempted with a bit of sarcasm. 50+ week-weary people packed into your average coach bus for 10 hours isn't EXACTLY the greatest place to hit REM. Especially not when the guy in charge of the bus tries to tell you your ticket isn't for this bus (har har har) and then explains that your armrest is what we would call "CAH-PUTT!" I'll leave the rest of the drive up to interpretation.

About 5am I awoke, looked out the window, and said, "Yak." I was heartily confused because 1) I was on a bus 2) I had no idea where I was 3) about 63% of my body had fallen asleep and 4) I was staring at animals I though didn't exist in Europe. Maybe I HAD gotten on the wrong bus.

Turns out my morning greeters were "Scottish highlands cows."

Fig. 1

Strange. When we finally reached the station, the six of us piled out and onto the streets of Edinburgh - AND THE WORLD!! We walked around for a good bit, looking for a place to eat. The first thing I noticed was a very castley-looking thing on a hill above everything else. Precision deduction led me to believe this was, in fact, the Edinburgh Castle. It's in the opening pic, but I love this shot below because of the juxtaposition of old and new.

Our first stop was a restaurant called The Filling Station, which we learned after the fact is a route-66 Americana themed diner. We were so hungry/tired, though, we didn't really care. I had Classic Scottish Porridge. It was lovely.

After breakfast we scaled the cliffs and toured the Castle. I bought an audio guide to go along with my entry ticket (these one-way information radios are really starting to grow on me).

Thus began the most amazing oh-my-God-I-can't-believe-it's-a-real-castle experience of my life. The whole no royal history in America thing plus my time-tested obsession with Lord of the Rings culminated in me walking around with my mouth literally hanging open, muttering to myself about kings and queens actually living here once upon a time, in a bit of a shock that something like this exists and is real and isn't just a model built by Weta Workshop.

The views were jaw-dropping

My favorite part was St. Margaret's Chapel. It was built by King David I in order to honour (britspell) his mother, who was Catholic. (I'm always a sucker for anything old and Catholic). It was later converted into a magazine when Cromwell took over, and is now used for christenings and weddings for members of the Scottish military. We actually saw a bride and groom going in when we were leaving. Cool note: since we were there on a Saturday, there were a number of weddings going on, and most of the grooms and male attendees were wearing kilts.

I got to see the "Honours," or crown jewels of Scotland. I also got to see this guy talk about Scotland in 1822. His talk was in the "Great Hall."

Edinburgh Castle: One of the top-five coolest places I've ever been. After the castle we walked down High Street and ran into about 58 statues and dedications to Sir Walter Scott. Do I have any idea what he did? No. But I appreciate that in Scotland he's a PBD. I dragged everyone into a Tartan-weaving store, where I found a scarf knit with the plaid of Clad Baird! Arr! The store itself was cool, and you could see how they weave the tartan!

Baird Tartan! ARR! (I don't know why the Bairds suddenly sound like pirates. But they do.)

We walked around the city, enjoying the sights and soaking up the ehm-bee-ence.

For mid-afternoon tea we went the The Elephant Room, a cafe. Now, a certain writer made this cafe famous for writing large chunks of her novels here. Cue Amanda gasping.

We sat in the back were Rowling would sit and write, with a great view of the Castle out the window. Visions of Hogwarts?

Early evening Eileen decided we should go on a ghost tour. Now, I don't do scary movies. They do, in fact, scare me. They don't gross me out or make me laugh or entertain me, they just scare me. I think there's enough evil in this world without us using it as entertainment or to freak ourselves out for kicks. But I decided, since I'm abroad and "trying new things," I'd go on the ghost tour.

There were about twenty in the group. We paid our 7lbs and were ushered into a stone hallway in the back of an old building, supposedly a remnant of an old bridge. There were no lights save the tourguide's flashlight, which she shone on her face. She began, "Now, one of the scary things that can happen is that during a tour you will hear loud, even footsteps," which she demonstrated. "They never slow down or stop, they just keep moving. People call the owner of these steps The Watcher. Now, I will tell you as a tour guide, when you are standing up here and talking, and you know no one is moving, and you can hear the footsteps behind the crowd but can't see anyone coming up, it's quite unnerving."

That was it. "Can I go?" I asked as my hand shot up. "Can I just...go now?" I swiftly moved through the crowd and out of the door back the way we came as the tourguide shouted "You can get a refund at the office!" I ran onto the street, into the sunlight...and burst into tears. I. Hate. Scary. Things. I decided to walk up and down High Street while I waited for my doomed comrades. I went into about every touristy highlandian shop there was, and bought a CD of Scottish fiddle music for 3lbs. Way better way to spend my money, as far as I'm concerned.

After the troops returned from the dungeons, we decided to go to "The Monument." I still don't know what The Monument is for/to, but it is a bunch of classic pillars on a hill in the corner of the city. At first glance I was a little skeptical of walking all through the city just to get to a monument dedicated to something we didn't even know, but as we came up on it, all worry was lost. It was, in fact, the perfect way to close the day. The six of us sat around the pillars, staring out over Edinburgh, recouting tales of our adventures during the day, and being, literally, on top of the world.

We were running short on time so instead of gamely seeking out some authentic Scottish foodstuffs, we went back to The Filling Station, which we knew the directions to the bus station from and knew wouldn't break the bank. I had fish & chips. Again, delicious.

We made our way back to the bus station as I resigned myself to another night of 2 hours of shotty sleep. When we hit our first pitstop I got out and used the bathroom. Before I walked back I looked in the mirror and had one of those Mia Thermopolis "Well, this is as good as it's gonna get" moments, taking in my greasy hair and remnants of the make-up I put on 24 hours ago. On my way back to the bus a guy looking a few years older, nice eyes, with a think accent asked, "Are you American?"
"Yeah, I am."
"Where are you from?"
"Denver, Colorado."
"What are you doing here?"
"Studying abroad in London..."
And we both sorta looked around...
"You are...a singer?" I then occured to me that I had been telling John on the bus all about being a voice major. I realized at that moment I probably had not been talking as quitely as I had supposed. (You may all now roll your eyes.)
"Yeah...where are YOU from?"
"Guess."
"I dunno...eastern Europe?"
"*mumble*"
"Turkey?"
"Italy."
"ITALY! Cool."
and then it happened.
"Do you have a phone number?"
"I...what?...OH NO SORRY HAVE TO GO BYE."

And then I realized I had been sleep flirting in front of the bus with this guy for about two minutes. I ran back into the bus, thoroughly embarassed, and fell asleep.

We returned to Victoria Station at 7:30am. After a series of Tube-related disasters (does EVERYTHING have to close on Sunday?) we returned to the flats and I opened my email. I found one titled thus: "CARBON LEAF READ YOUR EMAIL AND DEDICATED A SONG TO YOU." My eyes pretty much popped out of my scull as I read my friend's recount of how the lead singer read my email to the crowd and then dedicated the song "Block of Wood" to me. And then I realized it really HAS been the greatest weekend ever. I got an email reply from Barry, Carbon Leaf's esteemed vocalist, thanking me for my note and wishing me luck in London. HOW DO THESE THINGS HAPPEN? HOW'D I GET SO GORRAM BLESSED??

And a good time was had by all!

Toni&Glorious

2009-09-11T12:13:00.000-07:00

Today was my hair appointment with Toni&Guy training studios. I was one of the 20 hair models. The models were all ages and hair types. We explained our desired cuts, were ushed off to stylists, and given a haircut & style. Cost? 5lbs. Pretty snazzy.

Result:

Next week - PINK!

09/09/09: One for the Books

2009-09-10T10:53:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was one of those days when everything clicked. It started easily enough, rousing myself out of bed at an ungodly hour. It was about nine. But it felt ungodly, because I've taken to wearing the eye mask my dad got in an airplane pack when he when to China on business about a decade ago, and so it's pitch-dark when the alarm goes off. I don't care that it's sunny outside - it's night where my eyes are and therefore I shouldn't have to get up.

But I did. And I dressed in my newly-acquired impeccably fashionable manner. Most of you are probably rolling your eyes. But it's true. My dress has become quite competitive as far as London streets go. Most of you wouldn't even recognise (britspell) me!

I took the bus to the Centre. I've taken the bus every morning this week. I've never been too keen on walking, especially early in the morning when I'd rather be snoozing. The bus is a nice way to wake up, especially since I get to sit on the top of a double decker bus, with completely legitimate purpose. It's endlessly fascinating to watch the Londoners on their morning commute, out of the Underground and up and down the streets. People of all different dress, ethnicity and hair colour (britspell).

Though I take a long time in adjusting, living here is becoming easier. Places are familiar and I am feeling more comfortable. In the beginning it was like moving to college all over again. We all remember that hell. It was odd moving in with a hundred or so students, most of which I didn't know. But in the past two weeks I have made a number of friends, or a least friendly acquaintances, and the living is easier. I thrive on routine interruption, but in order to achieve that I need a routine. And I think I've finally got one.

I had my only class of the day, "Philosophy of Law." It manages to be endlessly interesting and endlessly dull. Two of my roommates Kelly and Danielle and my friend Scott are in it, so that makes it easier to bear. Especially when one of us decides to take on the professor, which is always entertaining.

After class I joined another roommate Eileen, my friend Lauren and their/now my friend Rene, along with Scott, on a journey to the Tate British. England seems to have an overabundance of art. It seems that no matter where I stand on this island there is some gallery within spitting distance. I can't decide if it's truly cultural, or if everyone in Britain just decided that they were going to elevate everything ever painted in the last 500 years to the status of Priceless and construct endless galleries to show off Yet Another British Cultural Thing.

But here I was, at the Tate British (NOT the Tate Modern) walking around aimlessly whilst my friends searched for their class-specific pieces.

I am not an art person. I'm an ART! person, but not a Lovely Painting of Cows in the English Countryside person. This time, though, I began to enjoy myself. Spurred on by my positive experience in the Portrait Gallery, I walked around looking for stories. The best paintings have good stories. Or at least give you an opportunity to create your own. And did I. My most favorite paintings were by a dude named John Everett Millais, who I'd never heard of before.

We have "Mariana":

She's from a Shakespeare play but I forget which one. Basically, she was promised to a guy she loved but then the ship carrying her dowry went down and he wouldn't marry her anymore. But she still loves him. And waits.

And "Order of Release":

After some battle with the Scottish, the woman gets her revolutionary husband released.

He's most famous, though, for "Ophelia," which I also saw:

From Hamlet. She went crazy and drowned herself. Like they tend to do.

After the Tate I stopped at a cafe in Leicester Square and had a raspberry smoothie while I read "Troilus and Cressida." The play is not Shakespeare's best. In fact, it's my least favorite of those I know. Good to know the man was human. But sitting and reading it at a cafe, oh so stylish, nearly made up for it.

That night was my friend Jim's birthday, and my flat had dinner with his flat. It was a full production, with beer brats, potatoes, veggies and NUTELLA CAKE. And brownies. And strawberries. And chocolate sauce. And a good time was had by all!

I'm currently listening to the Rockies/Reds game, which I found streaming online. God Bless whoever hacked 850 KOA. When Atkins got a homer I danced around the kitchen.

This weekend me and the flatmates (flatties?) and some friends are off to Edinburgh!

Oh, and STEWART COPELAND IS COMING TO A MUSIC STORE ON MY WAY TO SCHOOL ON MONDAY TO SIGN HIS NEW BOOK. STEWART. COPELAND. THE DRUMMER FOR THE POLICE. THE DRUMMER. FOR THE. POLICE. MY. FAVOURITE (britspell) DRUMMER. EVER. FROM. MY FAVORITE. BAND. EVER. EVER.

Radical Islam and Spice World

2009-09-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

Gudevnin!

After my nightmarish schedule-tag last Friday, I was keen to begin the week and see what new bouts of Academia awaited me. My switch into "Alternative Theatre" found me in the middle of a great adventure Monday night, when I went to see the Arcola Theatre's production of "Elder Latimer in Love."

The Arcola Theatre is located in what I would call the Turkish part of town. There were lots of Turkish restaurants and everything seemed very Middle Eastern in the dresses and shoes being sold in the shops. It was far far away from anywhere in London I've been, so the "sense of adventure at twilight" abounded. There were also a lot of travel agencies advertising (brit spell) ISTANBUL!!! WHERE I'M GOING OVER FALL BREAK!! For those of you who haven't been in my shouting distance recently (large though it may be) my one goal for Europe is to get to Istanbul and see the Hagia Sophia. I have a thing for hte Byzantines. Pre-Schism. Whevs. SO, seeing all the Turkish beeznass made me very excited. And after wandering round the roads for a while, we turned down an alley and into the Theatre.

Now, Alternative Theatre is everything the name promises. We sat in the lobby with tables and drinks until the theatre was ready. Then they ushed us out of the front door and back behind the building, where we entered the actual space. (Explore the space!) And did we. There were about fifty of us in the audience sitting in two rows around three sides of the unbelievably small black box. We came in and three actors were already positioned on boxes in the space. I sat next to a very friendly Arab-looking fella. He keep smiling at me and looking around like he was excited. I was pleased to be sitting next to him, thinking he would be up for enjoying the show. By the time we were all squished in, he was one person away from me, and after the lights dimmed, he stood up and turned around to the guy behind him...and began the show.

Thus began the coolest straight-play experience I've ever had. The plot: a Mormon (with a TERRIBLE American accent) comes to London for his Mission. He meets a gay Muslim, falls in love with the guy's sister, spends time with their crazy aunt and her English boyfriend, gets high, etc. Meanwhile, the Muslim girl is making this "multi-media project" for some conference. She often stops and talks into a camcorder (projected onto the wall) about her beliefs, and being written out of history, and how angry she is, etc. She loves the Mormon but knows he'll never marry her, and he loves her for her commitment to her faith. He says goodbye to go back to America. She completes the project, which is being edited by her brother. Her brother then realizes that the film is an explanation and goodbye, because she's going to go blow up the theatre. The lights come up, the cell phone announcement comes on, and we are suddenly about to watch the play the girl was "working on a project" for. She comes in with a bulky jacket and sits in the audience (right behind me). For two seconds, my life flashes before my eyes and I think, "Dear God, they're going to kill us. They're going to blow us up. It was all a set up and I'm going to be the victim of a terrorist attack." Which is, of course, the point, because Mormon boy comes bursting in begging her to not blow us all up. The aunt comes in and talks her down, and the play ends before she lets the bomb off. WOW. I didn't look at my watch for an hour and a half.

That was Monday. Tuesday I managed to bum a ticket to a BBC "Prom," short for promenade. A Prom is one of a series of concerts that go all summer and here held at the Royal Albert Hall.

They're a whole slew of classical pieces, conducted and featuring multiple heavy-hitters of the classical world. It's called a promenade because for 5lbs you can buy a standing ticket and "walk around" during the concert. We had fanTASTic seats, right next to the bass section.

I walked in with my friend Lauren, and immediately gasped. "OH! MY! GOD! THIS IS WHERE THE SPICE GIRLS PERFORM AT THE END OF 'SPICE WORLD'!!!!" She stopped for a moment, looked around, and gasped, "YES YES YES IT IS!" London was then made perfect, and my deepest desires fulfilled.

The programme started with Mendelssohn's Overture. (Which one, I know not. That's what happens when you charge for programs. No one knows what's playing.) I've seen a great mother buttload of classical music in performance, and I have to say, this was tops. Something about the night and the people, from those five stories up to those in jeans standing in the "promming" area all in awed silence, gave the music an atmosphere I have seldom experienced. I'm generally not a fan of the genre (give me punk or give me death) but this night, something in the air smelled sweeter. I saw new life in the orchestra, a pulse in symphony I had previously given up searching for. Fair attempts to experience this can be taken at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3MiETaBSnc

The piece was conducted by...Peter Maxwell Davies. Yes, THAT one. The one I studied spring semester in "20th Century Music" who wrote "Eight Songs for a Mad King." He conducted the first piece and then conducted the U.K. premier of a new violin concerto. Very odd, very atonal, very cool. The middle section was beautiful (not atonal, very emotional) and moved me to tears. YES, I cried. He got oodles of encores, and eventually the violin soloist started playing "Happy Birthday" (it was his 75th birthday?!) and we all sang. (Well, I sang. Very loudly so he could hear me. "Hahpi BUTHday SirpetermaxwellDAVies....")

The second half had a different conductor, and it was fun to to watch him mouth encouragement throughout Sibelius's...once again, lack of programme. PEOPLE! Well, it was fun. And the piece was mind-blowing. Visions of sitting with Andy during an unexpected piece in Baroque going "that ROCKED!!" All around, an evening I won't soon forget. *Sigh contentedly*

WAIT! It was Symphony No. 5. Here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLOig_N14Dg

So far, 2 for 2. An evening of in-your-face theatre that was jarring an endlessly entertaining, and an evening of music that changed my mind's classical landscape. Kudos.

From Druids to the Archbishop

2009-09-06T09:29:00.000-07:00

'Aight, kids! So here's the epicness that was my weekend.

Fig. A. Stonehenge. Built by...aliens? Druids? Season-worshiping Anglo-olde farmers? The mystery remains.

We got up Saturday morning and were bused to Stonehenge, where we trundled out in Notre Dame fashion and gathered our "audio guides." You walk through the "experience" (large pile of rocks in the middle of a field) and as you pass numbers posted in the ground, you plug them in and the audio guide tells you about what you're looking at. Very clever. You can go at your own pace, and you don't have to strain to hear the heavily-accented tour guide.

Lovely, er, rocks. Very epic.

Stonehenge ROCKS!! (Cult movie references, anyone?)

Actually, it's very eerie, these stones. They're from far far away and somebody picked them up, moved them, shaped them, stood them up straight and stuck their bottoms in holes in the ground around when the pyramids were being built. By the time the Romans found them, they were ancient. WHO BUILT THEM? WHY ARE THEY HERE? WHAT DO THEY WANT FROM US? My Tour Guide Walkie Talkie was very squishy on the subject, so I don't really have any answers. That's pretty much the point of Stonehenge. We know the general point (summer solstice here, winter solstice here) but we don't know who or why. So everyone walks around in a big circle, taking tons of pictures, wondering, what humans made this? The mystery gets kind of creepy if you think too hard about it. I myself am going with aliens. As opposed to these guys, who apparently not only believe the Druids made Stonehenge, but the government has them hostage.

My favorite part is the Knights of the Roundtable garb:

Then we went to the city of Bath, thus named because of the Roman Baths which are there, which come from the natural hot springs. The town itself is very cool, kind of like a "London-lite." Lots of buildings with shops on the bottom, but not an endless flowing metropolis.

We had about an hour in town before our tour of the Roman Baths, so me and a few kids shuffled into a pub and ordered the uber-tradish fish & chips (so cheap - you don't realize how expensive London is till you get outside of it). It was FANTASTIC. I hate fish. But I loved this food.

There are a lot of pictures of food in this blog. My purpose is two-fold: a) it plays a remarkably large roll in my life (what with no dining hall, the acquisition of each meal is an adventure) and b) I must prove to Amanda that I am indeed eating, as she was certain I would spend all my money on West End shows and forgo foodage. So there. Yay food.

The Baths themselves were pretty darn cool. It's so wild to think the Romans were actually here, living and bathing. The baths have been preserved quite well, so we were walking on the stones that Romans walked on (!!!). I have a feeling this is Euro-Touring 101 ("The Romans were here!") but it's my first encounter and it was very cool.

After the initial view of the Baths one walks in and out of the temple area, looking at artifacts and following "a day in the life" of the Roman bather. Lots of the original plumbing is still intact, and much of the Roman architecture has been preserved or re-created. Basically it turns into an all-out "What the Romans were like" museum. Very cool.

Live-Action Romans! Yay!

Original head of Minerva, the temple goddess.

So after this adventure we trundled back into the bus and rushed home for the FIRST NOTRE DAME FOOTBALL GAME OF THE SEASON!! We went to SportsCafe, where all the ND fans ended up in squished in an "Executive Box" in the top because some soccer/futball game was going on. No worries, though. We enjoyed the game well enough. The NBC feed was coming in off the internet, but the game was going so well (you watch it?) that no one really cared when we had to stare at Jimmy Clausen's face for 15 minutes because the picture froze and, what, is that the Addidas logo on his cheeks? How much is he getting paid for that?

This morning we got up and went to Mass at Westminster Cathedral, the hub of Roman Catholicism in the U.K. Note: I forgot my camera (grr) so pics are taken from the internet. We happened to go to High Mass (yesss!) and had the pleasure of singing a Credo and Communion Rite (provided in the program) along with the top-class men's choir. Highlights of the choral pieces included Palestrina's "Agnus Dei" and and Offertory motet by Tallis. Balla.

The Mass just happened to be said by Archbishop Vincent Nichols, the head of Church in England and Wales. That would make him a PBD (Pretty Big Deal). It was a GREAT Mass said in a GREAT cathedral with a GREAT presider. We shook hands with him afterwards, introducing ourselves as students from the University of Notre Dame in Indiana. He asked how long we were around for, and told us to come back!

The cathedral itself is magnificent. It is interesting, though, that interior decor doesn't go all the way up the domes, but leaves the top of the insides showing dark, bare brick. I wonder if they don't have enough money to finish it, or if it was just designed that way. After Mass we wandered around the many chapels that adorn the edges, but only got through half of them. Must go back next week (the Archbishop requests it!).

Alright then, it's 12.25am, I'm beat, and I won't even go into this evening's fabulous meal (breakfast for dinner with the boys' flat next door!). Voice lesson tomorrow, along with a slew of new classes (did the scheduling dance last Friday).

Cheers!

LondonesQue

2009-09-04T13:53:00.000-07:00

Good evening, loyal subjects. After two days of romping around the city roads, I am coming ever closer to being fully Londonesque.

Last Wednesday, after class, I had nothing to do (well, lies, I actually had to read the James Bond novel "Dr. No." Poor me!) so I decided to toodle around the National Portrait Gallery, where I ran into this guy:

I slowly walked around the Tudor rooms, taking in each piece with comments to myself of "cute" or "total player" or "wouldn't want to be forced to marry HIM!" I ended up in the Stuart rooms, fully enjoying myself. The thing with a portrait gallery is that it isn't so much about the "art" as it is the person. Each plaque next to the portraits didn't say so much about the picture as the owner of the mug. Entire stories developed, like those of King James and his mistresses, just by looking at their faces.

Highlight, of course, was running into this balla:

The next day I had my Playing Shakespeare course, which will be the gleaming light of gloriousness during my stay here. We were lectured on Elizabethan theatre. Imagine learning everything about "Shakespeare in Love" that you never knew you wanted to know. First half of the semester in the classroom. Second half at The Globe. Yup. That one.

That evening we had a programme-wide viewing of "The Queen." It's very different seeing it here, knowing she's living down the block. I still can't really wrap my mind around the idea of having a Queen. Goes against my gut-American Independence business. But as long as I'm here, I'm willing to be a fan.

Today I saw "Avenue Q." I went in knowing most of the jokes/songs (thanks, Joe) so some of the initial humor (humour?) was lost for me. It was very interesting watching it with a Euro-British audience. Gary Coleman = not so funny. Making fun of Germans = very funny. I got a headache about halfway through, but I self-diagnosed it as dehydration. I think I've subconsciously avoided taking in liquids since the paying-for-the-toilet incident.

Had another magnificent dinner tonight. Kelly cooked chicken wrapped in bacon stuck on tooth picks and glazed with something tangy. How is it possible that I'm eating better here than I've ever eaten before?

Tomorrow - group trip to Stonehenge and Bath!!

Wick-Um, Not Why-Comb

2009-09-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

Hello, Trolly People, and good evening. Evening for me, though most of you are probably getting out of class or heading to an early dinner. I am please to inform you that I not only survived my first day of class, but the train to the country for my voice lesson, too.

Yesterday I took the tube to Marylbone station and waited for my train (TRAIN!) to High Wycombe. I got there an hour early, and after printing my tickets I bought a bag of "piggie chews" (gummies in the shape of pigs. Awesome). I decided it would probably be a good idea to use the rest room, or "toilet" as is said here. (I never called it the toilet at home. It seems too blunt and crude. But here, no one knows what a rest room is, and no one says loo either, which I was looking forward to.) I turned into the Women's room and was met by an IRON FENCE, telling me I needed to insert 30p to enter. 30P! MONEY!! THEY WANTED ME TO PAY MONEY TO GO TO THE BATHROOM. In the battle for which country is cooler, though the U.K. has had a number up on the U.S. so far, America gets the point on this one. I would NEVER have to pay money to go to the bathroom in the United States. ON THE ISSUE OF TOILETS: AMERICA:1 ENGLAND:0

But I caved and peed, and then boarded the train. Now, it should be noted that I walked around asking a number of people which train was the High Why Comb, just to make sure. They all answered or pointed, and it was only after the conductor announced the places the train would be "calling on" did I realize I had been pronouncing it wrong the whole time. It's wickum, not why comb. Bollocks.

The lesson went very well. When I told my teacher I had bought the train tickets online the night before, she said, "Well, aren't you a smart bunny!" We're doing lots of French (gack!) but my French is abysmal and she loves the language so I should learn a lot, whether I like it or not. I missed my train back but took the next. I should note that while there are a number of "hamlets" and cows and sheep and England countryside looking things, the train from London to High Wycombe is strikingly like that between Chicago and South Bend. It was somewhat comforting.

Today I had my first classes, starting with Ethnic Conflict in Northern Ireland. I know NOTHING about this topic, so it should be a good class. Our prof is from the Midwest, his parents emigrated from Ireland and he's lived here for 20 years. He's got an American accent but he says certain words like "Ireland" and "Parliament" with an Irish accent. So that's cool.

The second class was Britain on the Screen. We watched Sean Connery as James Bond in "Dr. No." Now, the only James Bond movie I had seen before was "Quantum of Solace," so I was up for anything. I must say, Sean Connery was one...hunky dude. I will forgive the eyebrows and keep the chest hair. The film itself is ridiculous, but very fun. Very 60's.

Our flat has opted to do flat dinners four nights a week. There are five of us, and one girl doesn't want to cook so she's on permanent dishwashing duty. (Yay! No dishes!) So far it's the best part of the day. I come home to a warm kitchen with food set out on chopping boards and going in and out of the oven. We all try to chip in, stirring something or setting the table. We sit down together, the five of us squished onto a too-small table, and eat and drink and laugh for over an hour. We've tended to start a meal and then a while after decide we should create some sort of dessert, and before we know it it's 10pm and we've been talking and laughing for hours.

It's the perfect way to end the day. It makes the all-alone-in-a-new-country business far more bearable, knowing I can come home to a "family" dinner. People have started joining us, too. And tomorrow (my night) we are going over to another flat for lasagna, so I'm making a massive salad. I barely eat during the day (too expensive for fast food+too busy+nervous most of the time so I lose my appetite) so it's LOVEly to come back and have a huge, home-cooked meal. (I'm eating, Amanda! I promise!!)

I do, though, miss home. I miss my family, and I miss Notre Dame. I miss Folk Choir rehearsals, I miss Opera Workshop, I miss my Albatross and I miss my Quad. Good Lord, I miss my Quad. I keep thinking, here I am, brave new world! I'm here to learn and explore and discover! But it becomes all the more apparent, with missing my friends and anticipating dinner each night, the journeys aren't about the places you go, they're about the people who go with you. And you are all with me, whether you know it or not.

Piano Drumming, Peter Pan and Persian Food

2009-08-30T14:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-29T09:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-28T10:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-25T09:18:00.000-07:00

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)

2009-08-22T21:06:00.001-07:00

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!"

2009-08-19T15:30:00.000-07:00

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!