Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

It's only been my second weekend here, but I'm willing to speculate that the past 72 hours will prove to be a top-ranked experience 4 1/2 months from now....

I arrived in London Thursday evening, but the most eventful particulars of my visit begin Friday in the posh South Kensington district. A raucous house party at an acquaintance's (that is, someone I became acquainted with upon entering their home) is finally winding down. It is 3 a.m. It is at this time that my bosom buddy, Hannah and I are offered to share a night cap by a bloke who lives nearby. The following is an amalgamated summary of what ensued upon accepting the invitation...

Little did I know, the next day would in fact be more traumatic. Months ago, caught in the throes of 
fanaticism, I purchased a Jamie Lidell concert ticket. Fast forward to this recent past saturday: As I 
had just learned the night before, the Tube stops operating between 1 and 2 a.m., so I had already 
accepted I would have to brave my first hostel experience.
It is nearly 7 p.m. and Hannah's granny has offered to have me and another friend over for dinner. 
Granny lives in Northwood (indicated by the blue star)

My Hostel (shown below) is located in Greenwich (indicated by the green star)

Jamie Lidell is performing at the o2 arena (indicated by the red star)

The Tube station is currently under construction, so what would normally be a 30 minute ride along a 

single station line, became a little bit more like an hour and half series of station changes and the 
dreaded replacement bus service. We finish eating kebab, fruit salad, custard, and of course, tea and 
biscuits and head out the door at a quarter to 11. I am to take the following Route:

[Song: Jamie Lidell, A Little Bit More]


Bus to Wembley Park Station
to Jubilee Line to Baker Station
Change onto Hammersmith to Bow Road
Change onto DLR (light rail, above ground) to arrive in Greenwich
While waiting for the Bus to arrive we entertained ourselves by harassing a railway employee

The bus driver did not know where he was going and got lost...for 30 minutes
By the time I got to the DLR station at 1 a.m., it had stopped running for the night.
I was out of phone credit and had 40 minutes left to check-in to the hostel
I began to run frantically along a quarter-mile stretch of road to try and take a bus and then realized as a 
young, female foreigner I would want a working phone on me so I topped-up (added phone credit).
A cab got me to the hostel, at which time I discovered it is above a bar (hence, the 2 am check-in 
deadline, since that's when the bar closes!) 

I'm told that a bottle of whiskey has just been spilled on their computer and so they are going to bypass 
the usual check-in procedure and hand me my room card. I'm in an 8 person room. I rush up a series of windy, narrow wooden stairs and enter the dark, musty room. Everyone is asleep and I have at least 

three distinct snores to look forward to when I get back. I throw my duffel onto my top bunk and cover itwith my blanket figuring it is much more difficult to kidnap a sleeping person than it is to steal a duffel.

I rush back downstairs to the cab and after some directionaldiscrepancies I arrive at 2:10 a.m.
The o2 Arena is the definition of ginormous. It is comparable to the size of an airport and is in fact a 
multi-purpose events center. Per the advice of some scantily-clad drunkards, I spend 25 minutes lapping 
the grounds, and call my cab driver, Hasan to pick me up convinced I have lost in the race against time. But with 20 minutes to wait until he's to be there anyway, I decide to make one last effort and am 
pointed in the right direction. It is 2:40 when I walk in...

Apparently few to none have even heard of Jamie Lidell, (not a single person I mentioned him to knew 
who he was) and so I am able to stand in front of the stage less than 10 feet from him. 15 minutes later 
his set ends, and as he passes across stage, I grab him and manage to kiss the top of his hand-- it was the least I could to make the whole night worth it.
I sprint back to the cab driver who's already attempted to call me 6 times since I told him to pick me up.
I'm in my top bunk by 4 a.m., awake at 8:30 and vow never to book a single European concert show 
ticket alone again.

All (up) in the Family

My first weekend getaway has come by way of my friend Hannah, who is originally from London, but was transplanted to the States before she developed an accent. My journey began on Friday, as I headed 55 minutes southwest by train to Liverpool Station, London.


I made my way over to Notting Hill (indeed, like the movie) Gate station and wandered through Kensington Palace Gardens, which as Wikipedia will tell you contains some of the grandest and most expensive houses in the world, exists as one of the world's most expensive residential areas, and thus is known as, 'Billionaires Row." Pish Tosh! (this is what is actually meant by Americans using the expression "pish posh") It's a half-mile road of embassies, of which I have no pictures.

Hannah and I then ventured into central London where my childhood fantasy of seeing Big Ben came into anticlimactic fruition...Ben is not that big after all.

The real reason for my trip was now about to begin. We would embark for the small (population +/- 7,000) north-easterly town of Ely (pronounced Ee-Lee), to stay with the one and only Uncle Gordon; but with 13 minutes to spare, we realized that our train was leaving in 13 minutes....47 minutes later we were off!

Uncle Gordon can perhaps only be described as one of England's finest examples of British gentry.

Don't let the electric blue paint job fool you; this loo is from 1854

Other unique features of the house include:

1) An actual bunker from when the Germans were bombing during WWII

2) Guinea Pigs!

And as one quickly finds out, no visit to Uncle Gordon's would be complete without a river boat ride

The waterway is called the Ouse. The boat's name is a play on words of the book title "Who's Who." Uncle Gordon admitted that in another life he would have been a sailor.

Per Uncle Gordon's suggestion, we missed his daughter's church choral concert and instead headed two hours north to the Lazy Otter, that is, a bar...but as Uncle Gordon assured us, Jesus wouldn't know.

It was past nightfall when we arrived back, and began getting ready for a night out in the prestigious university town of Cambridge.

Suffice it to say, prospects of bloak magnetism were unmet. 
However, before nights end a du-ragged gentleman fashioned 
me a flower from a cocktail napkin...

All in all, a splendid first weekend 
excursion!

Potpourri

So as of my third day here, I've quickly realized that I need a general depository post for brilliant, but categorically random stuff...


1/16/10 Visit to Cambridge University

Old School...                                                            

...New School?

Why the University Library is officially my favorite place on campus

n.
1. An act of masturbation
2. A detestable person
...could be worse

Behold, the Paternoster!

First built in 1884 by Londoner J. E. Hall as the Cyclic Elevator, the name paternoster ("Our Father", the first two words of the Lord's Prayer in Latin) was originally applied to the device because the elevator is in the form of a loop and is thus similar to rosary beads used as an aid in reciting prayers.

1/22/10 On the train to London
What to have a 'prior engagement' may actually imply in England

Strolling around west-central London

Knowing that the meerkats are on the look out assuages any fears evoked by the sexual predators sign

1/26 Officially the best sign on campus and perhaps even all of England

I'm not offended, but really just more puzzled by the marketing strategy behind this...

Accommodations

Alresford (pronounced Ahl-sz-Ferd) Court is only available to international students and first years.
Each flat consists of six individual rooms, equipped with it's own personal loo.

As you enter, to the left...

Alresford is the newest residence at Essex...while the curtains are circa 1987, at least                                            

Due to the over-sized luggage piece, the doors can't actually close--further proving everything is bigger in America

All-in-one may take some getting used to--three bathroom activities, one common floor

Tell tale signs that Janet lives here--ziploc bags, purell, post-its

In a word it's quaint.

En-route to En-gland

So, 19 hours later I've made...please admire the ''beauty in the breakdown'' below:

Tuesday noon: leave for SFO, little to no traffic, get there by 12:38
                       begrudgingly submit two checkin bags--Thanks to the Nigerian Bomber, TSA devised a brilliant security measure limiting each passenger to exactly one carry-on, as opposed to, for example, the more logical restriction of wearing underwear. Point being, for women, this means no purse.
                       airport employee signals me to come closer--a secret's a foot? not quite. She is accepting my 28 kilo (approx. 60+ pounds, so more than 10 pounds over the persmissible limit) bag because, ''I just want to get you out of here fast.'' --First impressions are apparently my forte.
                        the next three and half hours pass--next time you find yourself in the SFO international airport with time to kill, I'd recommend  the pinball machine and jade sculpture exhibits.
                        papa miraculously witholds tears as I say goodbye and enter the security line--equally miraculous is how TSA didn't confiscate my bag of mulit-colored, unlabeled drugs (iron, headache, omega-3 fish oil pills), or a large ziploc bag of mysterious white powder (laundry detergent)
                        I board at 5, due to an hour delay and am able to sweet talk some ladies into switching seats so that my friend, Cristina (who's also studying abroad in England) can join me on the opposite side of the plane--hooray! for friendship
                        I watch a censored (sans Galifianakis nudity) version of The Hangover, and Post Grad--needless to say, movie selection was limited, especially with regard to the latter.
                       We land at 11:30 a.m. on Wednesday, at which time a voice explains that it will be at least an hour before we can deplane, as fewer planes have departed from Heathrow than have arrived in--a symphony of gasps, moans, groans, and as if on cue, a baby's cry ensue.
                       2 and half hours later we're off. I find my shuttle driver, Brian and he kindly offers to drive Cristina, who's missed her own university's shuttle to the center of London--I get to see London sooner than expected, but am now an hour, or so headed in the wrong direction.
                       As Brian expected, we hit a bit of rush hour, and an auto accident amounting to a 30 minute delay--during which time I find out Brian doesn't drink, doesn't much like futbol, and has several goats and sheeps for pets (not exactly your average bloak)
                      I arrive on campus at 6p.m. with an hour to spare before the study abroad office is to close. Brian helps me with my bags to the information desk--To my surprise, the information desk is unfamiliar with the study abroad office, and thus all the more amused to find out that the coordinator's name is Julie Andrews.
                      A burly security guard escorts me to the study abroad office, and offers to take my largest bag...which is on wheels, while I carry my overstuffed duffel and a cumbersome hardcase--my right palm is now bruised.
                     I get my key and Julie Andrews says she will take me to my room, but first must get a campus map because she doesn't know where my building is--to my surprise, again.
                     ''Everything from the student center spreads uphill,'' Julie explains as I have to drop my bags for the sixth time to regain feeling in my forearm--Julie Andrews is correct in her observation
                     Julie Andrews explains that my building, indicated by the number 8, is not shown on the map and fetches the attention of a passerby, who then runs down a snowy hillside to verify that we are in fact looking right at it.
                     Julie Andrews is creating a path as wide as my luggage piece, as Julie Andrews drags my bag through 3 inches of snow--also noteworthy, Julie Andrews is wearing high heels.
                     Upon entering the building, Julie Andrews quickly brings to my attention that there is no lift, and explains it's best to take my bags up the three flights of stairs in trips--Julie Andrews does not do stairs.
                     It is only once I am at the top with all my bags that a person emerges from inside. One of my flatmates, Pauline (French, 20 years old, law student) offers to help. At which time, another flatmate, Vanessa (Swiss, 19 years old, but looks 30, studying government ) greets me.

It is approximately 7p.m.

We then took a short bus ride to a Tesco, which was most basically described to me as a grocery store, but it's so much more than just a grocery store. Aside from your standard market fare, Tesco offers electronics, linens, housewares, alcohol, and even a separate, albeit, small gluten-free section--yea, I guess you could say it's England's version of (shudder) Walmart, but I've been told it's the place I will most frequently visit while I'm here, so I'm wholeheartedly embracing it whilst telling myself it's nothing even remotely like the aforementioned, notorious, national conglomerate.

So far I have yet to take any pictures or video, whoops.