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[paigeacrossthepond]

Week 10: the election and Hampstead Heath

On Wednesday morning the tube is dead silent, and my eyes are heavy from waking up at 4 a.m. to hear the news of the election. I have grown to appreciate the silence that accompanies me to class every morning. It is one of respect for other tube riders, one of unspoken tradition. Today, it feels more like a lid closed on something. People are reading the London Evening Standard noncommittally, groggy and equipped with their morning coffee. It’s hard to miss the headline: TRUMP TRIUMPH SHOCKS WORLD. To 49 million Americans, this may not have come as a shock. And maybe, to many Londoners, it didn’t either. 

Now it is clearer that our election of Donald Trump has an inherent twin rhythm to the Brexit outcome. For Londoners, Brexit is a colossal misstep. I use ‘is’ instead of ‘was’ because its effects are still to be seen; conservative Prime Minister Theresa May is currently planning an approach to a full implementation of Brexit, which has left many in the U.K. worried for what is to come. This is what is known and termed as a ‘hard’ Brexit, as opposed to ‘soft.’ 

Britain’s decision to leave the European Union represents a reversal of values in such an urban and diverse area, while also bringing a disconnect to light. I think this disconnect is particularly relevant, and showcases a growing divide that has served to push each end of the political spectrum further from the other, coinciding with what we are witnessing in the U.S.

The parallels in voter turnout between our election and the U.K.’s Brexit referendum cannot be overlooked. Rural, working class voters were undermined in both situations, and indeed were the ones to take precedence over the commonly liberal London and other city centers of the U.K., not unlike Trump’s Electoral College sweep of rural Midwestern states; previous Prime Minister David Cameron (who resigned shortly after the outcome of the referendum) allowed the referendum to take place in the expectation that something like this decision would not happen. He didn’t take the possibility of a ‘Leave’ majority seriously, and is now largely blamed for its fallout. 

The campaign to leave the EU on behalf of Britain’s most prominent nationalist group, the U.K. Independence Party (UKIP), is eerily similar to Trump’s ascension, populism, and divisive rhetoric. They spouted barely concealed xenophobic sentiments among bids for sovereignty, but their grip on the working class and rural areas of the U.K. leave handprints that shouldn’t be ignored. Nigel Farage, leader of UKIP who then abandoned the party after the referendum, endorsed Trump. 

Multiple police groups across the U.K. noted a nearly 50% spike in reported occurrences of hate crimes against Eastern Europeans in the days following the Brexit decision, undoubtedly the target of UKIP’s rhetoric. This prompted London mayor Sadiq Khan to launch the London is Open campaign to allay fears of a growing xenophobia, placing the simple image of a hand-drawn world with the slogan ‘Everyone Welcome’ throughout public spaces and transport. Seeing them on tube platforms is a brief and welcome reminder of London’s values, which I have been distinctly aware of from the first day of my arrival.   I have had many people here reiterate this to me: they never thought Brexit would happen. This sense of disbelief is characteristic of the liberal votes that marked London on the referendum’s voter map. Brexit came as a shock, and the mournful and funerary sense of loss that colored many of the days following the decision last June is akin to the feelings of many anti-Trump voters right now. The predominant attitude in London seems to hold that our outcome is nothing short of a mistake, just as Brexit is to them. 

In the two months leading up to Nov. 8, I was asked almost constantly about my opinion of the election by British adults, journalists, and even politicians. As an American student, I was questioned on what I thought would happen, what my views on Clinton, and more avidly, Trump were. These questions came from a place of engrossed curiosity – not out of malice or insult.

In other places, however, I have noticed Trump’s likeness met with displays of lampoonery, comedy, and fervent condemnation. These come in the form of posters taped up on the lone telephone pole, thick black lettering surrounding Trump’s silhouette in Germany; way too many satirical clown garb getups of Trump to count in the streets of Paris, Edinburgh, and Brussels; and Trump-themed restaurant menu items galore in most of the aforementioned places. These demonstrations of foreign disapproval for our chosen candidate are tangible, even edible. 

Getting to class on Wednesday, my professor can’t help but notice the charge in the room. She compares the overriding mood to the day after Brexit. This sounds familiar, more a signpost of shared experience than a statement of doom. My British program directors buy us all cupcakes, which could be taken as comfort food by some, celebration treats by others. The ambiguity of the cupcakes is not lost on me, so I take a chocolate one and devour it. Other establishments around London offer free cheeseburgers and bowling games to Americans. 

When I get back on the tube Wednesday afternoon after class, the sun goes down at 4 p.m. and I ride home in silence and darkness. Later, I try to get a free cheeseburger but ultimately fail because the din of the establishment offering them is too much for a tube rider that is this accustomed to the silence. London’s impact on me affected my longing for a post-election cheeseburger! I retreat to the tube again, soaking in the silence. I need the silence now more than anything – for reflection, for hindsight, for whatever is to come the next four years.

On Thursday, I took stole more silence for myself. I wanted to ride the bus. And on the list in my journal compiled before leaving was lettered: Hampstead Heath. With all of the things on my list, I never knew what to expect. That was guaranteed. Google images wasn’t able to tell me about this day, its numerous people passed on the sidewalks of London, their chosen to-go sandwiches, quirky tote bags, lipstick shades beckoning. Become one of us, they seemed to say. Every day a new set of inspirations, trivialities, mistakes. And all of this could be found in each place on my list, an endless number of possibilities further multiplied at the behest of the day I picked to go. I ticked off the places with due devotion when visiting one. 

Buses, however they managed to mess me up certain days, left me with impressions of a continuous city, not chopped up by descending into the underground and popping back up in disconnection. A new and different city presented itself each time when relying on the tube. Today, I was looking for connection. 

Riding the bus to Hampstead Heath, I came upon King’s Cross in miniature from the tucked-away seat I held, then whipped around a corner into deserted residential streets with giant flower pots on the dividers. Pulling up the the Heath was a strange matter, and I was made aware of its tiny opening through which I needed to walk. It was hard to see what lay ahead, but I entered the wooded area anyways. The land came to this point where I stood, I realized, with dark coming soon. I decided to only go in as far as the sunlight would permit, until it lowered on me.

It was much more unkempt than I expected – no pristine rose beds or shimmering gates, foliage so thick it was overgrown. There was mud, and lots of it. I made the connection: a heath wasn’t a park. The pond encapsulated within wasn’t supposed to be beautiful, no forced framing or designated benches for the perfect view. The view here was of either dense greenery or unremarkable apartments. With this in mind, I ventured into and back out of the mud, finally sitting to watch a blustery sunset fall onto the field. 

I knew it was time to go home when a chill threatened my scarf-less neck. I walked to Finchley Road, that great connector of the surrounding areas, hoping to meet the station there. This led me through Hampstead’s wealthier streets. Shining windowsills complemented the purple dusk approaching, peeking past the highest trees that muddled my path on the ground.

It was best to leave the Heath this way, I thought, making it to Finchley Road just as it got dark. Later on, I would find this to be truer than I had known. I found a painting of the heath in the Victoria and Albert, hidden among justifiably more important paintings in the unpopulated galleries. The heath was, and perhaps still is, London’s country. Londoners of the past considered it the country, and in the painting it is rendered as such. Barren land meant to be explored alone, the waning light of day peered at skeptically, inquisitively, and then inevitably left behind. I walked away from the heath just as those dead Londoners did in solace and quiet, the day winding down and vanquished as if controlled by a dimmer switch. 

Returning to Rayners Lane, the darkness reminded me of my destination – home. And so it would always be, with a car or without one, by foot, by bus, or by packed tube. The escape ended, for the moment at least. 

Hampstead Heath

The walk to Finchley Road

Houses near the heath towards Finchley Road

Landscape near Hampstead by John Constable (around 1820-1830) in the Victoria and Albert Museum

[paigeacrossthepond]

Edinburgh: the pictures

On the train to Edinburgh, first glimpses of Scotland

View from Edinburgh Castle

More views from Edinburgh Castle

Inside Edinburgh Castle

View from inside a cannon lookout at Edinburgh Castle

Edinburgh Castle

Tea time at the Elephant House

St. Giles’ Cathedral

The Writers’ Museum

Arthur’s Seat (before climbing)

The view from atop Arthur’s Seat

Me post-climb, red cheeks and all

More views 

Sunset on Arthur’s Seat

The descent

Ruins of St. Anthony’s Chapel found on the descent

Edinburgh skyline

Edinburgh Castle from the road

The Meadows

Old town

Behind the National Library of Scotland

Map exhibit at National Library of Scotland (<3 this quote)

Map stairs at the National Library of Scotland

Inside Scottish Poetry Library

Park near Waverley station

Scot Monument

The bay feat. the Royal Yacht

Holyrood Park feat. Arthur’s Seat

More Holyrood Park

View of Edinburgh in the distance from Holyrood Park

View of Arthur’s Seat from Calton Hill

View of Waverley station from Calton Hill

Calton Hill

The Burns Monument on Calton Hill (this was as close as we could get)

One last look at Edinburgh -- this is where old town and “new” town connects

[paigeacrossthepond]

Week 9: Halloween and Edinburgh

Halloween was the beginning of this week, on Monday night, the night before we left for Edinburgh, Scotland. I celebrated like I usually do, by carving a pumpkin and watching the ever-essential Rocky Horror Picture Show, which I foisted upon my housemates Allison and Bridgette. In class Monday we discussed Scotland’s reach for independence in the Scottish Independence Referendum (2014), in preparation for the days to come. 

Pumpkin carving was also my way of preparing to leave London again, a normal activity before being uprooted for the time being (we would be in Scotland from Tuesday to Saturday, effectively the rest of the week). Celebrating an American holiday confused my host mom a little bit, because she didn’t know what kind of traditions we were used to for Halloween. The same goes for me, in terms of understanding how kids in England see Halloween. We had a few trick-or-treaters knock on our door, proving that it does exist somewhat over here; it is not, however, as widely celebrated in comparison to how it’s celebrated in the U.S. My host mom was familiar with the practice of handing out candy, so the kids who did show up were rewarded. It felt weird to be leaving so soon, with midterm break still feeling like it just happened, and feeling like I just re-settled into London and a school schedule. 

The finished pumpkins outside of our homestay

My Mr. Robot-inspired pumpkin :) 

Edinburgh, Scotland

Tuesday: 

I was running on very little sleep when we gathered near a Pret a Manger in King’s Cross, waiting until around 8:30 a.m. to board the train to Edinburgh. It was a four hour journey from London, and I slept for about an hour right up until we arrived. The scene outside the window had turned from a drab grey to the bright blues and greens that characterize Scotland, a creeping excitement filling my chest. This trip would definitely be one of the highlights of my semester, and I could tell that as we approached Waverley station. 

Getting off the train was jarring. It was a much different “vibe” from London; even as London’s crowds aren’t overwhelming, Edinburgh’s crowds huddle and weave in the cold, nimbly-hatted heads bobbing in the distance. And it was notably colder than London, if London could even qualify as cold. That was another misconception about London: it may be grey, but it doesn’t feel anything like the cold I’ve felt in the U.S. London is humid, and I have managed to sweat every day since being here. I count the passing of seasons partially by how the weather changes. It hasn’t felt truly like autumn in London due to the humidity, so living here has been a sort of limbo, existing outside of the rules of the midwestern American weather I’m accustomed to. Is it spring? Is it still summer? Because it doesn’t feel like autumn. 

This was a great thing about Scotland -- it was cold! And I think I thrive in cold weather. I am no good melting onto the slabs of hot concrete in a city. Let me have the comfort of a bundled up neck, a winter coat that hugs me just right. Let me have the cold, I asked, and Scotland answered. It is simple to feel this fulfilled, but I digress. 

We walked to our hostel, in the modernized section of Edinburgh. After dropping our bags off, we headed back out, guided by Mary, the assistant director of the London GEO centre. Our destination now was Edinburgh Castle, located on a large hill. I was prepared in my understanding of why Scotland lost their independence referendum, but I was not prepared for the steps up to the castle. If I was enjoying the cold, it was then necessary to wick away the sweat I accumulated on the trip up the stairs. The stairs are in a park near the train station, accentuating how Edinburgh occupies two different levels -- modern Edinburgh below, and old town Edinburgh above. 

Once we made it to the castle, I stripped my winter coat off to greet the wind that whipped around us at the higher altitude. I took a guided tour, getting accompanied with the castle’s illustrious history as a fortress and now home of multiple museums and Scottish regalia. After staying at the castle for an hour and a half, we rounded up to go to the Scottish National Gallery back down the stairs. 

I was tuckered out after rushing around the gallery, so I called it a night along with my hostel roommates. After dinner, we went straight to bed to gear up for another long day. 

Wednesday:

We had a proper Scottish breakfast at the hostel before walking to old town, involving bacon, sausage, black pudding, runny eggs, baked beans, and toast. The walk to old town is quite the trek, because it’s all uphill (my calves got their fair share of exercise...). First on the agenda was the National Museum of Scotland, showcasing a wide array of history/artifacts, as well as some of Scotland’s premiere scientific discoveries, which includes Dolly the sheep, the first cloned mammal. 

The café where J.K. Rowling wrote the beginnings of what would become Harry Potter was kitty corner from the museum, so I went there for lunch. Tea time has become a favored ritual of mine (following in the footsteps of the British), and was made more special in a cute café with an acquired, famous past and real Scottish shortbread. 

We walked the Royal Mile to St. Giles’ Cathedral and then to the Writers’ Museum as recommended by my writing professor Susie. The big event for the afternoon, however, was Arthur’s Seat. 

As with most things this semester, I had no idea what to expect. I can say with certainty this time that I was NOT prepared for the climb that was required of me to make it to the top of Arthur’s seat. And to be honest, I had never hiked before, not that I’m even sure that what I did was hiking. More like taking to the inconsistent stairs feebly, stopping every five minutes to catch my breath, or try to breathe at all. Like I said, I have been doing a lot of walking this semester, but this climb takes the cake as the hardest walk (er, I guess, climb) I have ever done. Arthur’s Seat is an inactive volcano, now the popular hiking grounds for tourists and locals alike. I think it took me almost an hour to climb to the top, but what awaited me was worth the initial pain. 

This was one of the most breathtaking things I had done so far, and I know I say I have a lot of favorite moments from my semester but this was something else. I finally understand what people mean when they say they felt “on top of the world.” I wasn’t quite “on top” of the world, because Arthur’s seat is only about 900 feet above ground, but the sentiment still stands. I was high on an adrenaline rush, too, which added to the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment and awe. I spent almost an hour at the peak, trying and failing to capture photos that did the moment justice. The walk back down was just as magical, with dusk falling on Edinburgh’s skyline, seen perfectly from the descent. 

Thursday:

Thursday was technically the last day in Edinburgh with the entire program, and we were free to stay more nights into the weekend. I had planned to stay until Saturday, and I’m so glad I did. If my trip had ended with the rest of the program, it would have felt like a premature ending, a trip cut too short. Those of us who were staying left our bags in the hostel, the rest of the people having to drag their bags around until they left in the afternoon. We had to go to the Quaker Meeting House in old town to talk to esteemed journalist Ian Macwhirter, who was to lecture us on Scottish independence, a topic he is well-acquainted with.

After lunch we had a tour of the Scottish Parliament, which was unexpectedly one of my favorite parts of the trip. This was due to the extreme eco-friendliness, people-friendliness, and sustainability of the building that houses parliament -- and here are some amazing facets about the building: 

The parliament building has beehives (save the bees!!!!)

It has gardens and apple trees they collect from to make food

There is no air conditioning in the main part of the building, just skylights that filter in sunlight and air along with solar panels

There is air conditioning where people work long hours of manual labor, i.e., the kitchen

Apparatuses attached to the roof collect rainwater which is then sanitized and used for labor and washing

The entire building is designed in the shape of a tree

Government workers have their own window seats where they can sit, rest, and think

This was bookended by a visit with the Scottish Minister of Education, Shirley-Anne Somerville. She briefly explained the kinds of goals she has for her position, including continuing Scotland’s exceptional University programs. 

With that, the day was mostly over, and Laura and me had planned to stay at an Airbnb the rest of the weekend. We went back to the hostel to grab our bags and took a bus to the far end of Edinburgh where the apartment was. Dinner was purchased at a Sainsbury’s, a rather uneventful end to a great day. 

Friday:  

This is the kind of thing I missed, I thought. I had left the Airbnb later than I had planned, weaving through what was called ‘The Meadows,’ a hauntingly flat stretch of land in otherwise hilly Edinburgh, with a giant bottle of Lucozade and the ability to blend in to what I would soon approach. I had left the apartment in a rush, worried that I would miss out on who knows what – was it the landscape? I had already had my fill in the days before, climbing incessantly up and down the streets, but there was more, always more to see. This just meant I hit the crowd at the perfect time, the way a minnow works its way into a stream at a seemingly fateful moment, when all collides in a song of normalcy, crowds passing into classrooms, lecture halls, laboratories.

I felt a bit like a fish out of water at first, close enough to the edge of the dock to peer airlessly back into the wet abyss – until I felt like a fish in water, nonetheless with a constant stream of other fish passing by in indifference. Stepping onto this campus, or what looked like a campus, felt like this. A particular heartstring was plucked, one note rang out within me that surged with home, home like an objective correlative. The practicality of the daywear, the sensible water bottles hung from hands, the earbuds plugged into devices no doubt playing the music I liked. Shoes and backpacks in various colors and shapes moved throughout the space, rending one complete and unblemished image of collegiate grace.

I thought of my own campus – how different it was in size and feel, Alma’s squat 70s brick being interchanged for buildings that had both the modern and ancient touches of Edinburgh. Alma reeked of the 70s, no matter how hard the administration tried to patch over the decaying brown carpets or add fancy flat screen TVs to every lobby in a bid to distract from it. It was endearing and nostalgic of a mid-20th century that I had not lived through. All the previously graduated students haunted like ghosts, sitting in armchairs by the fireplace in the Van Dusen building, noticeably replaced fixtures forever harking back to a past history. My campus could never compare to this one, idiosyncratic in its own right. But it was the campuses I would never be a student at which enticed me for that reason.

In sudden flashes I longed for familiar professors, office doors permanently cracked open, kids I didn’t know but probably saw five times a day walking the same paths, assignments done hurriedly while talking to close friends, dorm rooms bedecked with string lights and personal window decorations. This is the hum of the campus: a nucleus of he said she said, translated to a font and scribe that is easily discerned and carefully located.

There were the noticeable tawny heads tipped back in laughter, gaggles of friends walking side by side in comradery, places of interest including a café table covered in research, two girls conferencing over the drama of the past day, and good haircuts blown in the wind on their way to the back seat of a class they loathed. I was waiting for someone to look at me and smile in recognition, then remembering I was in a different, surprisingly foreign, country. I blended in well enough, happy to pretend I was a student here, sure they would welcome me with open arms on the off chance that I did move to Edinburgh and decide to enroll in their post-graduate program. It was a lovely thought. I pictured myself studying in a library I hadn’t yet seen, dauntingly filled with all the books I’d never get to finish and research I’d never do. 

Then it was on to another street; in Alma, you know where the streets end and the college begins. There is a meridian valor, a notoriety to the sidewalks that pave the very edge of campus. Further out is unknown territory, but here you are safe inside. An impervious little bubble of floating ideas, cramped connections, gathering in their own strange light, a forced light not unlike that of the University ad campaigns – jovial students on their way to class, and thus, a career, endless sidewalk and greenery created just for lounging in the quad on a spring day, lovers’ quarrels, or somber walks home after noisy fraternity parties. On this campus, though, I thought I was sure where it ended, a brief pause in the flow of traffic for businesspeople and the like to flow as well. The romance ended just as the street did. I passed into another zone, not connected fully to the campus, a phantom limb of fast buses and impatient elders. I walked on, letting the fantasy carry me to my next location. This campus could have been anywhere – though it was here. I let the feeling take its course, but it elapsed and my emotions slipped away.

That next location was the National Library of Scotland, where I would meet my housemate Bridgette, a fellow English major who, I assumed, was also into that kind of stuff. Unfortunately, you had to be a member of the library to really get inside, but we had a nice time perusing the gift shop before heading to the Scottish Poetry Library.

The poetry library is one of my favorite places in Edinburgh; one visit was not enough, could never be enough. There is an abundant collection of poetry books, cozy chairs, and an upstairs lounge worth a few good hours that I didn’t have. Nonetheless, I made the best out of the hour that I did have, taking time to appropriately read some poetry. Bridgette and me ate our lunch on a bench on the Royal Mile, until pigeons attacked us viciously and we were forced to leave. 

We went to meet up with Julia and Laura by the Scot Monument, heading to the bay at the other side of Edinburgh via bus. We had wanted to get a peek at the Royal Yacht, and upon arrival, we did, except it was behind a fence. At this point in the trip, by the bay, I had encompassed a nearly full view of Edinburgh -- its peaks, its valleys, its water, its city, its ancient town. And I felt invariably satisfied, as we rode the bus back to the Airbnb, city lights floating by in a haze.

Saturday: 

Saturday morning’s activities included walking around Holyrood Park (right next to Arthur’s seat), backpacks on and bags in hand because we had to leave the Airbnb bright and early, then working our way to the Royal Mile for shopping. We gathered all of the gifts we had to stuff in our backpacks, climbing Calton Hill, a hill filled with various Scottish monuments, most of which were closed as we soon realized. It was just Laura and me with all of our baggage, and we made it through the cold and the physical strain, fueled by Starbucks’ holiday-themed drinks and a tourist’s sense of duty. Our exit was nicely soundtracked by bagpipes, and we went to the Waverley train station to catch our train after the hill. 

I was sad to leave Edinburgh. It had encapsulated a lot for me -- my own Scottish heritage, my college’s mascot (we are the Scots), the sound of bagpipes transporting me back to campus, the sheer beauty of Edinburgh, its energy different from London -- and I left with a full, grateful heart. I was especially grateful for the itinerary GEO had planned for us, and the opportunities that came with it. I am not sure I would have had such an exceptional trip to Scotland had it not been for the help and guidance of Mary and GEO for planning it. This undoubtedly bolstered my personal experience of Scotland, and my understanding of it (and its aims for independence) too. I can definitely say cheers to that.

[paigeacrossthepond]

Week 8: concert overload, Borough Market pt. 2, and Notting Hill

This week was one in which I was running on very little sleep. When I returned to London Sunday night, I had to finish a presentation for my British politics course on the conflict in Northern Ireland, so my week started with me being sleep-deprived. Seeing as I was already sleep-deprived during break, adding on to my deprivation seemed fine at the beginning of the week. School is finally starting to feel normal, its frequency by the eighth week helping me to settle into a routine after a busy and exhausting (but fun) midterm break. 

I thought I would switch things up by going to two concerts (in a row) as my midterm gift to myself. Partly this was my own mistake -- I planned to go to one concert, and then planned the other one, not realizing the days were back-to-back. Monday, after a long day of school and giving a presentation, I commuted back to my homestay just to eat dinner and then headed out again. This night’s concert was the band Porches, Aaron Maine’s lo-fi, folk(ish) project turned semi-synth pop. It was at the same venue that the Frankie concert was at, so I had no trouble getting there. I took the time to observe the crowd at this concert, as I found the crowd at Frankie to be pretty respectful and quiet. This crowd was a bit more rowdy, as Porches’ music attracts different people than Frankie does, despite Frankie and Aaron being partners in real life; they make similar music, introspective lyrics, minimalist instrumentation -- but their auras are distinct. Does using “aura” make me sound like a hippie? I think that’s the only way I know how to put it. Frankie is very much a “girl next door” turned on her polite head, with a few secrets, a proficiency in saying what she wants to say, and a smile that makes you feel like she knows something she won’t give away (even as her lyrics are revealing), while Aaron is more apt to, I suppose, give more away, be more outrightly sinister. Which could attract a wilder crowd, matching Porches’ new (emo?) pop sensibilities. 

That being said, two drunk men behind me trampled my own enjoyment of the set, as I took a place at the barrier. They couldn’t handle their alcohol, apparently, and took it upon themselves to talk loudly and bump up against me the entirety of the show. There was a girl next to me who noticed they were being belligerent and helped me move away from them -- restoring my faith in kind strangers. I had a great time dancing when the men weren’t all up in my space, so all is not lost. I made it home before the tube shut down thankfully, the last person on the painfully slow Piccadilly line being me, getting home at almost 1 a.m. 

Porches

The show on Tuesday night was a band called Japanese Breakfast. Michelle Zauner operates under that name, more of a one-woman act than a full band. She is actually Korean, confusing some people who assume she is Japanese because of her chosen band name. I have been listening to her debut album, Psychopomp (2016) a lot this semester, and it has soundtracked much of my London experience this far. When I saw she was playing a concert near King’s Cross, I knew I had to go or I would have major regrets. It was at the Lexington, a famed London pub that I had some trouble finding in the dark. I walked in circles a bit, knowing I was early anyway. I found it eventually, though Google maps had me all sorts of turned around. This was a smaller show than the Porches and Frankie concerts, as Japanese Breakfast is just getting started and the other two have multiple albums under their belts. As an avid music listener, it’s particularly exciting to catch a band on their heady upswing, in the prime of their early days, besides loving the album in general. I got there when the opener was still playing, and the crowd cleared out enough when they finished that I was able to snag a spot right in the front. This time, I had my personal space and had an unfettered good time. Michelle is a firecracker of a vocalist; I find it difficult to explain Japanese Breakfast’s sound, maybe a mix of 90s alt/grunge and 80s-inspired synths, but then also indie pop. It’s a unique amalgam of influences to say the least. Going to concerts, while at first slightly daunting, is a way to lose yourself in a group of strangers. No one knows who you are, you are free to dance as idiotically as you wish; instead of talking with friends you can observe the reliable rotation of touring bands as they interchange drum sets and prepare the stage. Those are just some of the pros of going to a concert alone, and I plan to do it more when possible in the states. It’s also a way to tap into the dialects of the people around you, especially when being abroad. I got home late again, luckily catching the faster Metropolitan line. 

Japanese Breakfast

Very dark picture of Michelle belting out a new song about robots in love (<3)

Mid-week, I had to deal with my sleep deprivation because it was knocking on my door, and hard. I took the rest of the week slower, then, using Thursday and Friday’s empty afternoon to nap vigorously. Of course, this meant that I had to do something Saturday, so Notting Hill it was. 

But first, BOROUGH MARKET (I LOVE YOU). I met Laura at the Harrow-on-the-Hill station, comfortably placed between our respective homestays and perfect for weekend meet-ups. The last time I was at Borough Market with Laura, we had our eye on this chicken sandwich. So our goal this time was to procure one, and we did, eating them messily in the busy road between Borough Market’s two covens -- savory and sweet. Borough Market is very much a London tradition, and one that I completely gave myself over to. 

Notting Hill had been on my list of boroughs/villages to go to. Funnily enough, it is not because of the movie it shares its name with, seeing as how I actually haven’t seen the movie. But Notting Hill has a certain reputation in London, as it is the place that Caribbean immigrants flocked to in the 20th century, now a hub of artists, immigrants, and the wealthy. This is Notting Hill’s flavor, most noticeably recognizable in its markets, its street food, and its street musicians. I have also grown an appreciation for walking through each borough, as much of its ground I can cover in a weekend or weekday afternoon before darkness descends. In Notting Hill I particularly enjoyed its colorful doors and buildings, a signature of the area. To finish the afternoon off we sat on a bench in Notting Hill; I ate some more of the German sponge cake from Borough Market and was perfectly content. 

Flower shop in Notting Hill

Some Union Jack pride ;)

[paigeacrossthepond]

Midterm break: the pictures

Paris, France

Notre Dame

Inside the Notre Dame

Inside the Notre Dame

Detail on outside of Notre Dame

Inside the Notre Dame

Deportation Memorial

Outside of Notre Dame

Back of the Notre Dame

Latin Quarter

Outside the Louvre

Venus de Milo

Inside the Louvre

Mona Lisa

View from inside the Louvre

Parisian breakfast served by the hostel

Inside Versailles Palace’s gates

Inside Versailles Palace

View from inside Versailles Palace out onto the garden

Hall of Mirrors in Versailles Palace

Versailles gardens

Outside the Trianon

Marie-Antoinette’s estate

Queen’s Hamlet

Musical fountains at Versailles gardens

Fountain statues at Versailles gardens

Statues at Versailles gardens

Fountain statues at Versailles gardens

The Palace of Versailles

Bastille Place

Apartment windows in Montmartre

Notre Dame at night

Paris Opera House at night

Moulin Rouge

The café where the French movie Amélie was filmed

Sacré-Coeur

View of Paris from the Sacré-Coeur

Sunrise from hostel window

Street market in Paris

The Eiffel Tower during the day

View from first platform up in the Eiffel Tower

View of Montmartre (see the highest point of the Sacré-Coeur?) from first platform of the Eiffel Tower

Beneath the Eiffel Tower

Arc de Triomphe

Tuileries Garden

Renoir @ Musée de l’Orangerie

Monet’s Water Lilies @ Musée de l’Orangerie

Van Gogh @ Musée d’Orsay

Monet’s painting of Westminster (London) @ Musée d’Orsay

Degas @ Musée d’Orsay

Inside the Musée d’Orsay

Eiffel Tower at dusk

Eiffel Tower at night

Heidelberg, Germany

Main street in Heidelberg

Heidelberg Castle

View from Heidelberg Castle

Trier, Germany

Porta Nigra

Brussels, Belgium

The Grand Place

More Grand Place

Manneken Pis

View from my hostel window

@ the René Magritte Museum

@ Royal Museums of Fine Arts

Secret garden

Me feat. fricadelen

Bruges, Belgium

Belfry in the main square of Bruges

Canal boat tour

[paigeacrossthepond]

Weeks 6 & 7: also known as pre-break and midterm break

The week before midterm break was rushed through, in all of the excitement and preparation for the real deal: midterm break. As this week in London was only four days long, I did not devote a full post to it -- but its notable activities were a walk through Fleet Street on Monday, previously London’s designated area for journalism and the early printing presses, and a visit to the Royal Academy of Art for an Abstract Expressionist exhibit featuring the work of Pollock, Kline, Gorky, and Rothko, and more. I enjoyed this exhibit more than I thought I would -- Jackson Pollock’s splatter art is highly reminiscent and even has its backbone in surrealist techniques of automatic art, art that is “automated” via the artist (Pollock) as he splatters away randomly, with the intent to convey each splatter as borne from a subconscious place, so as to be autonomous and fated in its area on the canvas. My strongest reactions were to Arshile Gorky’s pieces after learning the context of his life; certain paintings communicated vivid manic breakdowns which made me quite sad, or at least emotional. In that sense, his surrealist and abstract expressionist techniques were very affecting. Despite the frenzied technique of the paint, I found Pollock (looking at his work) to be relaxing and absorbing; my eyes flitted everywhere and nowhere. I thought there was a lot of beauty in the repetition of similar splatter patterns, as they create a visual rhythm that is easy to latch on to. 

On Thursday night, we went back to the Globe theatre to see The Merchant of Venice, and a freezing time in the pit was had by all. I had a hard time fully taking in the performance because I was too wrapped up in how cold it was (insert sad face here). I dealt with the cold, however, since I knew I would be in Paris the next morning. 

During break I didn’t have my computer with me, so this post might be not fully-formed into the splendor of travel writing I’d like it to be. I didn’t always have time to write, not with the sheer amount of sights to see and places to visit. I had planned this trip with the group of girls I was going with, ending the last leg of it alone. European travel can be daunting, and in this case, the preparations were the most daunting part for me. Figuring out connections to each place, and then getting back to London safely was the cause of much stress in the weeks leading up to my departure, and during the trip too. Nonetheless, it all came together, and I’m back in London safe and sound (I won’t burden you with all of the gritty details, but feel free to message me questions about planning a trip like this). To lay out my schedule, break started on Friday of week 6; Friday morning we flew out of Luton airport to Paris, France, staying in Paris from Friday to Monday afternoon. Then I got on a train Monday evening to Germany to visit my cousin Nicole, an American expat of twelve years, staying in Germany until Thursday morning. I caught another train to Belgium, where I would stay in Brussels until leaving Sunday afternoon via Eurostar back to London. All of this encapsulates a little over a week (ten days), by far the longest and most exciting fall break I’ve ever had. 

I am going to relay my journal writings here (slightly embellished after the fact), as I recorded everything I saw and did in these ten days.

Paris, France

Friday: 

So Julia, Allison Bridgette, Laura and me slept overnight at Luton airport on Thursday night, catching an Uber there since it is outside of reachable London transport. Surprisingly I was able to sleep, watching The Thick of It when I took my shift to watch over our baggage. I was traveling with only an extremely full backpack, which I cautiously used as a pillow when catching my Z’s on a hard plastic bench, near a Starbucks that played loud pop music all night as they prepared for the flood of early-morning customers. We had to be up at 4 a.m., and the airport existed outside of space and time, lights on, people everywhere sleeping fitfully or lounging. I couldn’t figure out reality, in addition to how I would be in Paris in less than a few hours. Our flight was 6 a.m.-7 a.m., which was 8 a.m. in France (landing time). We got on the plane fine, with the minor annoyance of a headache hitting me the last thirty minutes of the flight. We got through border security fine as well. 

We had to figure out how to get into the city to our hostel, with a slight slip-up when I wasted ten euro on a metro ticket that I didn’t need. I bought a five day pass for the metro, which I thought would be zones 1-3 but ended up being zones 1-5 at the behest of a French attendant who had no time for our poor French and communication struggles. Thinking that it was zones 1-3, then, I bought an extra ticket just for the ride into the city from the airport -- which I didn’t actually need. The ride in was darkened by that whole “holy shit I’m in a foreign country where I don’t speak the language” thing, effective but brief panic setting in for a moment. London suddenly seemed like home, the playground with a fence I didn’t realize I had in my grasp (or, had taken for granted). It made me dread getting to the city (Paris, in its heady glory), because everything outside the window was grey and slightly grimy. We made it to the hostel, finding a local patisserie where we ordered lunch (in French!). I had a baguette sandwich and un pain au chocolat, my favorite. Then we headed out in the itinerary my mom (who studied abroad in Paris) put together, with a Rick Steve walking tour on the agenda first. Notre Dame was the initial landmark we came to, very striking and tear-inducing when entered and wandered around in. I love the architecture of the back, dutifully flanked by its support beams. 

We also visited the Deportation Memorial, in remembrance of the Jewish who were deported in WWII, Shakespeare & Co. (had to hold myself back among the stacks of books, exiting shortly after entering for fear of buying a book I inevitably wouldn’t be able to carry around), and then the Latin Quarter, a brief reprieve from the previous tourist-filled centers. The overarching feeling from this afternoon was that everything smelled good, delicious bread the likes of which I have never tasted before, cacophonous metro rides (much louder than the London tube!), and a grey sky above the Notre Dame that followed us around, not dampening the mood however it tried. I actually almost fell asleep outside of the Notre Dame because sleeplessness hit me hard and fast, but I persevered.

Dinner was a rushed (but French) McDonald’s burger, because the Louvre was calling and we had no time to waste in one of the best art galleries in the world. The Louvre was free for students, and free to the public from 6 p.m. onwards. We spent two crammed hours in the Louvre, running around trying to catch glimpses of the famed works inside. I had my moment with the Mona Lisa, staring and staring (and squinting) until I could stare no more. Everyone gathers around her as if the great secret will be revealed, but I think part or most of her charm lies in the mystery. And indeed we did run around, up floors and down floors, and up more floors; you get the gist. In summary, two hours wasn’t enough time at all, obviously, as the Louvre is a maze that captures you in its corners, enticing you with inconceivable beauty, achingly hard to leave, for you know you’ll never come to it the same way again. It was magical in there after dark, the windows aglow with the scene outside (Paris strung with lights), some rooms just dim enough to create an untouchable pallor. Tired, feet sore and backpack hanging weightily, threatening collapse – but you hold on, walking more throughout the art, tourists packing in at all angles. By the time we left, none of us could walk any longer in the streets of Paris, heading to the hostel in search of sleep. Saturday: 

I definitely didn’t get enough sleep Friday night, more than Thursday though. Saturday was designated for Versailles. We got there on a double-decker RER train (not quite sure that it means, but it’s different than the metro, perhaps goes farther out than the metro?), then getting through ticketing for Versailles palace after a small misunderstanding – students get in for free, but the guards at the front weren’t particularly keen on letting us in, because they were looking for a very specific type of Visa, despite our eagerness to show our valid passports. We eventually got inside for free, the palace huge and jam-packed with tourists. We took a circuitous route outside of the grounds after to get to the Trianon and the Queen’s Hamlet, and Marie-Antoinettes estate, set on the far back half of the grounds, working our way through them all the way to the front, where the official gardens reside. There was a boundary standing in the way of our garden experience, as it was a Musical Fountain day at the gardens (requiring a ticket) BUT someone handed us two free tickets to get in; Allison and me were the most interested in going so the others headed off and we stayed to wander more. 

This was one of the most beautiful days of my entire semester. I had been dreaming about visiting Versailles since I was a child, and this surpassed all expectations; seeing it in real life is five thousand times better than seeing pictures of it in a book or online. There was a book of its fountain statues that I used to flip through when I was young, my eyes scanning the pages endlessly, even obsessively. That’s why this day of my trip was so special and important to me – I couldn’t shake the fact that I was actually in France! And at Versailles! The whole day had an unreal quality to it, as I tried to get past the shock of being in such an awe-inspiring place, walking carelessly through the most magnificent garden I had ever encountered. I watched some of the musical fountains at work, their jets shooting water out at all angles, synchronized to the orchestral score that pumped throughout the area. This added to the surreal – the constant barrage of classical music could be heard from anywhere in the park, a reminder of Versailles’ past and royal history. 

On the way back to the hostel, I was traveling alone and got slightly lost on the way to the metro station, a few moments of quiet panic setting in, similar to the first day on the metro. I stopped and successfully asked for directions in French, finding the station and nervously riding back to the Bastille area as I struggled to read the French scrolling past on the LED sign that named each stop. Once I made it back to the hostel, it was about time for the car tour my mom recommended to me. Laura was coming along, and we grabbed dinner before waiting for the car to meet us. The car tour took us throughout Montmartre “by night”, my mom’s favorite area in Paris, and an area that I probably wouldn’t have explored much if not for her suggestion. We got to see all of the buildings lit up in the dark, squeezing into small corridors and past iconic landmarks such as the Moulin Rouge, the café where Amélie (check, use italics) was filmed, the Opera House, and finally the Sacré-Coeur (the Basilica of the Sacred Heart), which sits at the far end of Paris on the highest point in the city with a nice view to boot. This was the end of the night, at the Sacre Coeur, going into the cathedral in silence (as the rules require); this cathedral is populated by worshippers twenty-four hours a day, so there was an active congregation inside (and outside, tourists and locals meshing together on the steps outside), a haunting singer echoing their voice throughout the high-ceilinged space. We ended the tour by peering out over the city from this viewpoint, a hard-to-distinguish but pretty amalgam of blinking lights. Of note: According to my mom, she recommended Montmartre because “when I was growing up the images of Paris were all Montmartre, that *was Paris, where the artists hung out. It seemed like the quintessential Parisian experience, and a naturally-occurring Paris, rather than, say, the man-made structure of the Eiffel Tower.”

Sunday: 

Sunday was a more “relaxed” day (or so it seemed when we planned it), with a more open schedule with ample chances for experiencing some of the art galleries Paris has to offer (outside of the Louvre). After getting breakfast and preparing a picnic lunch for the day at a local street market, our group headed to the Eiffel Tower to climb up its stairs to the observation deck. This was a good two-hour interval in which much sweat was shed, I became acutely familiar with the Eiffel Tower’s 688 steps and infrastructure, and the view that presented itself to me as I exited the stairs and looked upon the whole of Paris. We then found the metro, riding to the Arc de Triomphe and walking down the Champs-Elysées, Paris’ famed shopping street. We were due for lunch by the end of this trek, heading to the Tuileries Garden for our picnic of cheese, baguettes, French grapes, and the ever-important French drink of choice, Orangina.  

This left the afternoon open for art! The other girls split from Allison and me, as they had already visited the Musée d’Orsay. The Musée de l’Orangerie is right next to the Tuileries Garden, located across the water from the Musée d’Orsay, so we went there first. The Musée de l’Orangerie is notoriously small, showcasing a limited amount of works, most notably Monet’s Water Lilies in round, panoramic rooms, as well as Cézanne (the “godfather” of impressionism), Matisse, Picasso, and Renoir. To our surprise (and irony) they had an exhibit of American painters, including… American Gothic. Imagine our shock as we walked into a French art gallery, only to be met by American pieces, nonetheless one of the most iconic American paintings of the 20th century. The Musée d’Orsay was a little rushed, then, as we had taken a longer time in the Orangerie than we had meant to, captivated by Monet and the collection inside. This afternoon was sunny and hot, almost 70 degrees to the touch, an active scene outside along the Seine – truly picturesque and spontaneous. The rest of the night involved meeting up with some other people from our program for dinner crêpes, hanging around at the Eiffel tower (to see it lit up at night), and a good night’s sleep.

Monday: 

Monday was the day where the group went our separate ways, also known as the day where I sat in the train station for a lengthy two-hours, waiting to go to Germany. But this did not mean I squandered the day, instead taking the opportunity to traverse a part of Paris alone, which seemed daunting at first. My mom had recommended that I check out the Galeries Lafayette, a huge designer mall near the Opera House. I also checked out where she studied at the Alliance Française, walking in to snap some pictures for her. I did some shopping around in random boutiques that played very hip music, eyeing items that I could never in a million years manage to afford or justify buying. I spent lunch in Fauchon, the popular bakery, buying one precious dark chocolate macaron for myself. My last glances of Paris faded by in the train, when I finally made it to Gare de l’Est and boarded, exhausted and ready for the next journey, my feet sore and blistered. 

I was on my way to Kaiserslautern in Germany, where I was to meet my cousin who was so graciously hosting me for the next two days. When I got off the train, admittedly nerve-wracked, my cousin was waiting on the platform, wind-whipped and cheeks blushed. Paris had been Paris, a menagerie of classic architecture and iconic sights, but Germany would be seen this way: countryside, a ski jacket zipped to the top, sloped hills in a fog, and a cousin I hadn’t encountered in ten years.

The last time we saw each other we were probably at a family gathering I spent in a corner, my shy red headedness a blip on the antiquated horizon of “family fun.” I expected to get off the train and wind my way through border control, but instead we took the stairs down to the parking lot and jaunted off, much to my dismay. I had forgot about free movement in the EU, confusedly placing my bags in her trunk and worrying about my legal status. 

Her immediate warmth was in high contrast with my train ride through France and the very edge of Germany, a strange man pacing through the aisles looking drugged, disturbed, maybe both, as he proceeded to wander the surrounding cars after asking me for a phone charger. At first the request seemed harmless, but his erraticism in the following hour caught the attention of the attendants, and they followed him down the car in matched rhythm.

Conversation was easy between us, a casual back-and-forth already in the works – were we friends or cousins? Time had blurred the lines. I found I could already divulge my opinions on certain topics I would usually withhold. Questions like, what did I think of London? What was I studying? Quickly gave way to more personal topics.

She took me first to dinner, as I was tired and starving and looking for something homier than a hostel and a café meal. She recommended the wiener schnitzel, so I tried it out, pleased to find that it was merely breaded pork. When we got to her house I promptly went to bed, because I needed to rest more in order to face the days ahead coherently.

Germany

Tuesday: We slept in a bit, and lazily made our way (in her amazing sports car on the autobahn) to Heidelberg, which was about an hour away from her area. Heidelberg is partly a university town (and also where my cousin attended school), campus flowing into crowded streets replete with a never-ending parade of locals and tourists alike strolling down the cobblestones. We generally stayed on the main drag, a narrow street filled with shops, coffee houses, book stores, and restaurants, stopping for lunch to try flammkuchen (German pizza). The afternoon was comprised of a trip up to Heidelberg Castle, a half-ruins, half-standing structure that stands at the top of a giant hill. The story goes that parts of it are missing/in ruins because it was abandoned halfway through it being built, and the locals would come up to the castle at night and steal bricks and various attached pieces. We opted for a ride up in a tram that scales the hill up to the castle, rather than walking, as my feet were still pretty torn up from Paris. Being with my cousin definitely helped, with her fluency in German (self-taught!) and all-around willingness to show me around, be a makeshift tour guide, and accommodate me for two whole days. If you’re reading this Nicole, thank you so much! 

On Tuesday night we went to a traditional German carnival, with bratwurst for dinner and an assortment of rides to ogle at through the aforementioned ski-jacket zipped up to the top. Germany was much colder than Paris, which is a good analogy for travel – sweltering one day, freezing and wet another.

Wednesday:

We went to bed early, to try and get out of the house sooner than we had yesterday morning. This mostly failed, and we actually left the house later than we did before. Oops. Today was another laid-back, part-excursion part-relaxed piece of my trip, which involved a trip to Trier, Germany’s oldest city, featuring a city gate placed by the Romans (the Porta Nigra) and Karl Marx’s home. Once again, I must stress how tired my feet were to justify a tour trolley ride around the city. Sometimes spending the (usually small amount of) money to alleviate possible stressors when traveling is highly worth it. In this case, those stressors were the ground meeting my feet, and in order to combat any future issues during the last leg of my trip, the trolley was necessary. It is not wise, as I have learned, to put fashion over practicality – always wear sneakers when possible, no matter how touristy or dumb you think you might look. Your feet will thank you later. The night ended with döner kebabs, a German tradition and chosen “fast food” of the region. I would have to be up early to catch my train to Brussels the next morning, so we had an early night.

Brussels, Belgium

Thursday:

Waking up was a foreboding time -- knowing that I had to leave those two days behind was hard to swallow. Nonetheless I bundled up against the cold and we headed out. I had one too many bags, gaining a plastic bag in Paris to carry the gifts I had to haul with me, and clear some of the excess weight from my backpack. I had a sandwich on the platform, regrettably laced with mayonnaise, but I needed food so I finished it. My train ride was a little over three hours, leaving at 10 a.m. and arriving in Brussels around 1 p.m. I was unnecessarily anxiety-ridden, as foreign speech tunneled through the cars. This was out of fear that I would not know the correct stop to get off at (and would not be able to ask anyone for help), despite having the stop’s name on my ticket. This kind of irrational thinking and fear is something that I had to fight off multiple times. I had planned this part of the week to be alone, not realizing how challenging that would be at first. It didn’t help that I was so comfortable with my cousin; this made leaving Germany harder. This first day in Brussels was quite lonely. I walked to my hostel from the train station, meeting militarized vehicles and heavily armed guards, an echo and first glimpse of what life in Brussels is like after the recent terrorist attacks. I took this into account when planning my trip, realizing that anywhere I went would be or was already threatened by terrorist attacks. To let that stop me would, in my opinion, give them exactly what they want. 

In Brussels, there is an interesting mix of Dutch, French, and English being spoken. In this way, it is an amalgam of a city, which I would not experience fully until Friday. Thursday was a cold and grey day, which punished me for trying to explore even the tiniest bit, being rained down on after seeing the Manneken Pis (a fountain statue of a small man peeing -- one of Brussels most popular attractions). I resolutely vowed to stay in my hostel the rest of the afternoon and night then, buying a microwaveable meal at the supermarket around the corner for dinner. I had roommates in my hostel room, and it was a brief respite from the crushing loneliness I was experiencing to talk to them. I looked at the helpful map given me by the hostel, preparing to walk the city Friday. To be honest, I felt panicked to be in Brussels alone, which I don’t think had much to do with the city itself -- just the act of being alone in a foreign place sent me down a spiral of thoughts, the realization that I could only account for (and count on) myself, and that I was truly alone. I figured that I needed to sleep it off, so I conked out early.

Friday:

I bought breakfast for myself at the supermarket Thursday night, comprised of a pastry and a banana that I consumed in the lobby of the hostel. I was midway through a large bite of banana when I noticed two familiar looking faces -- two girls from my program who had also chosen Brussels as their final fall break destination. This was a nice and welcome surprise, as I was apprehensive about taking on the city on my own. We decided to band together and navigate a path that would allow us to hit all of the major spots. For a general idea of what Brussels is like after this walk that took almost all of the day, the newer half of the city is near the Brussels-Nord (north) train station, where I got off the train on Thursday. This half is deserted during non-business hours, with skyscrapers and glassy buildings galore. We explored the other half of the city today, which is a hilly, cobblestoned, and vibrant slide into and through Brussels’ older parts and history. We explored this half of the city today. A list of the places stopped at: 

René Magritte museum, (a Belgian surrealist painter) attached to Brussels’ Royal Museums of Fine Arts (also visited)

A secret garden located on the aforementioned helpful map

A vintage clothing store, as recommended on the aforementioned helpful map

The Grand Place, Brussels’ most well-known city square that features famous architecture (in which was a loud gang of drunk Bachelors, stepping outside from one of the ornate buildings and singing in good cheer, rolling keg and all)

A waffle shop for the necessary chocolate-draped Belgian waffles

And then it was back to the hostel to figure out dinner. We searched out a frites (French fries, invented in Belgium) stand, because we couldn’t leave Belgium without trying the frites. I also had fricadelen, a mixed meat concoction in tube form -- sounds sketchy/questionable, but it really isn’t. 

Saturday: 

We left early to catch a train to Bruges (also in Belgium). This was the sole reason I wanted to visit Belgium, so I was understandably excited. Upon arrival, however, its touristy nature was noticed immediately. Bruges dates back to the medieval age, known for its medieval architecture; it is a UNESCO World Heritage site as well, and is preserved as an exemplification of a historically medieval settlement. Indeed, the architecture is gloriously intact, but Bruges is overrun and replete with tourist shops, chocolate stores, and shopping in general. We opted for a boat tour of the canals (as Bruges is known for its network of canals) after lunch, to get a better image of Bruges rather than just by foot. We also visited two churches in Bruges, because the museums were apparently closed and that left us with much time on our hands to either wander aimlessly, with only stores to peer inside, or look at (more) ancient churches. We left around dinnertime, getting back to the hostel, grabbing dinner, and calling it a night. 

Sunday: 

l had to catch my Eurostar train back to London around 3 p.m., planning to get to the station at 1:30 so I would have enough time to check in, and wait outside of the platform. Eurostar security is like airport security: very strict and specific, so I knew I would have to get there with ample time. I had weighed the pros and cons of taking the subway to the train station (this time Brussels-Midi, on the other side of the city), but instead I chose to walk. It was only a 30 minute walk, except I had all of my bags with me, making the journey a very tiring one. Before heading out, I didn’t do much, just sat around in the hostel; Sunday, then, was just a day for travel -- and I couldn’t wait to “come home” to London. And this is one of the biggest realizations I had on this trip, besides coming into contact with new countries, new languages, new people: London felt like home. In just under two months, that was what it became to me. I have to say that traveling away from London for even over a week made me grow a larger appreciation for what London has to offer, and hone in on what makes it one of the greatest cities in the world. I’m still not sure I can completely verbalize it. Is it the amazing transport options? The diversity of each village, each borough, its own different and fresh and malleable thing. How safe I feel in its streets, in its suburbs, in its tube stations. How its faces aren’t static, but ever-changing, ever-receding down the road and bringing on a brand-new wave, a brand-new set of people to be considered and wished on their way. When I arrived in London at King’s Cross station on Sunday, I was ecstatic, elated. That’s what this city has done to me in barely two months. And I am so grateful for it. 

[paigeacrossthepond]

Week 5: Al Jazeera, Don Giovanni, Waterman’s, Borough Market, Regent’s Park, Greenwich

Phew. Do you see that title? This week was a whirlwind of exploring new places in London. On the personal front, I feel I have finally “settled in”, gotten more acquainted with my surroundings; yes, it took me over a month. I will not lie: during all of the adventuring so far, I felt pretty lonely. A lot of my day trips and trips in general have overwhelmed me in some sense, and I’ve been bombarded with a brigade of new places and sights and things. This is great, yet it has created a kind of reverse effect; in the midst of it all, I needed to find some things out for myself. I think that loneliness is an aspect of studying abroad that needs to be publicized more, especially in my case. I picked GEO because it offered a semester that included excursions and guidance, which I felt like I needed. And in some ways, I was right -- the extra support and planning has enriched my first few weeks here. But I realized that I have been lacking immersion, outside of my British professors and my homestay mom, Pauline. The thing is, what the GEO program offers is something completely unique, something tailored for American students. But that means that you are with an entire group of American students, which can kind of box you in, in terms of socializing with people from the area you’re studying in; in my case, British people of my own age. I don’t think I had a certain ideal to become friends with a bunch of British kids. I didn’t know I would’ve liked to have more immersion until I got here. It was kind of nebulous, what I would get up to in London. It’s hard to see past arriving at your study abroad destination, until a couple weeks pass, and a few weeks pass, and you start asking yourself: what is it that I really want to accomplish here, outside of simply going abroad? This week has provided me with some answers, including unfavorable Opera experiences, skyscrapers, and going out into London alone to find things out for myself. 

On Monday, my professor Andrew Whitehead (he teaches Britain Today) took us to the Shard to visit the offices of Al Jazeera, a prominent news media company notably covering the Middle East as well as Western topics. The Shard is one of the most recognizable buildings on the London skyline, as it symbolizes a newer, more modern London (similar to the Millennium bridge), and its design, a sharp, shining triangular beacon, represents an upgraded model for this aforementioned “new” London. We tubed it over to the London Bridge station, right next to the Shard, gathering in the Shard’s lobby; its security is very tight, and we had to give identification in order to be let into the building past the lobby. We were given swipe cards, which allow you through the hefty security gates, not unlike a turnstile in the tube. The Shard hosts many companies, so that gives you an idea of why the security was very intense and necessary. Everyone who comes in must be kept track of, and must have a reason for entering the building. 

Riding up to the umpteenth floor (can’t remember the exact floor number, but it was high up), we were met by the director of Al Jazeera English (there are many other subsidiaries of Al Jazeera; this is the one in England), and guided to a conference room where we talked with him about Al Jazeera’s background and aims as a news media outlet. Al Jazeera is an interesting company, in that it gives perspective on news not covered in the Western, mainstream media, including a Middle Eastern perspective. This visit to their headquarters worked off of the class topic of different media outlets and news companies in London. We then got a tour of their equipment and surrounding offices/space setup. This was led by a tech employee who deals with the extraneous parts and variables that go into their media and content creation, as Al Jazeera has an online platform and a TV channel. The employees have their own workstations/desks, and large computer screens show the process of content creation, exemplified as well by the editing room for the television component. There is also a studio and official announcer’s desk for broadcasts, and separate rooms for interviews. After this brief tour, we left, back down to the lobby and out into the midday London sunlight. 

Yours truly on set in the studio

Recognize the fake skyline background? This is an area used for remote commentators

The Shard

The view from way way up

On Tuesday night we saw a performance of Don Giovanni by the English National Opera (@ the London Coliseum), this being my first foray into Opera. I am not sure I liked it that much, as Don Giovanni is about a relatively nasty man, who seduces every woman he comes into contact with. Its running time was extremely long, and I found myself losing interest as the arias went on ad nauseam, as Don Giovanni seduces woman after woman, eventually messing everything up for a young couple and then falling back into his old ways until retribution comes for him (or doesn’t, I won’t spoil it for you). During this show (and due to the music sending me into introspection), I had an existential musing session -- I kept coming back to my purpose in London; was it not just to be in London? I think that was part of it, at least, a propulsion to soak it all in. Coming to London was jarring at first, and I was suddenly presented with almost everything to do... Now I have started a slide towards normalcy, a coming into London, as in I am no longer as focused on seeing tourist sights, but rather just making London a place that I am living in, as if it was as natural as a place near home. This doesn’t mean I would diminish its freshness to my naked eye, but more that I would look at it differently than I was -- make it “home.” This effort towards making London both fresh and familiar started Thursday this week. 

In London, I was overwhelmed with possibilities, and I was right to expect things that would pass seemingly without end. Sometimes one possibility distinguished itself from the others that I had written down in my notebook. On Thursday after class, however, I felt an urge to go to the movies; “movies” weren’t something that was on my list, but I figured it was legitimate enough to carry out. I knew that I was in the mood to sit in darkness in front of a screen so it didn’t really matter what movie I saw, as long as I found a theatre that was cheap. A quick google proffered one for me. Its location was nebulous; it could’ve been sitting on any part of the Thames and it wouldn’t have made a difference – except I quickly discovered that it did. 

I had to take the tube and then a bus. I conceded to both modes of transportation, but getting on buses was continuously a gamble. At first it seemed like a good idea, until it revealed its true function: to get you hopelessly confused. This particular bus took me to the very edge of, well, I actually didn’t know. Probably Ealing, if tube station names were any real indication. There were all the markers of a waterside industry – large complexes unmarked and even foreboding, steel reinforcement beams plaguing shadows above the streets, workers in all kinds of utility outfits grabbing a quick bite before heading back into the grey. So when the bus dropped me off right on the Thames, I was hardly surprised. Schoolchildren passed me on the street, and seemed to be heading in the same direction as me. Seeing school uniforms in London still gave me a little jolt. How the kids and teens looked so wise! So professional! And were they not mini adults already? It seemed they were undoubtedly smart by virtue of their distinguished smoking jacket/pantsuit/tie combination. 

I looked across the road, and there it was: Waterman’s Entertainment Centre. I felt pride for finding somewhere in “suburban” London that was populated by locals and the schoolchildren I had eyed outside at the bus stop. I bought my ticket and walked around the lobby, where elders sipped on translucent cocktails at 1 p.m.; the bartender smiled at me, as if he too saw the inherent comedy around us. When I went to use the bathroom, about ten young girls spilled out at one tug of the door handle as if they were falling out of a clown car. Mingled “sorrys” met me when I stepped around them, their school uniforms in various ways of disarray, a jumper here, a shoe there. They were trying to lounge somewhere private (which happened to be the bathroom) before their class presumably did some educational activity in the lobby. I recognized the stark groups forming outside under the too-bright lights: ponytailed girls with packed lunches, the lone goth sitting in a corner, staring ahead and rejecting lunch, Jansport backpacks surrounding colorful dye jobs and grabby hands with bitten nails.

After the movie I felt heartened, for it was something I hadn’t done in a long time, and arguably one of my favorite things to do. I left the centre gently riddled by sadness. “Exploring” usually led me to places I likely wouldn’t seek out again. I wandered along the Thames, which wasn’t optional in this case because the centre jutted out over the water, undisguised in its plea: “walk me.” I walked along the path then, starting out relatively optimistic with a gradual slide into worry as rush hour approached. Yet I couldn’t leave – this edge of the Thames was quiet – was I even in London? But yes, yes I was. Abandoned boats were docked and left to nature’s hand, some kept clean and brand new, others in decrepit protest. Construction workers perched on concrete that masqueraded as makeshift benches, smoking unassumingly and fading fast into the background of weathered greens and robin’s egg blues that lined the water. Walking down the path, I couldn’t believe the afternoon stretched itself out in front of me like this. I was so used to the heartache of a lost afternoon – lost to sleep, lost to incompetence, lost to five episodes of a TV show I’d never watch again. And for what? Right there, it seemed I could do this forever. 

Thames watching, being adrift in London, thinking I would see something that wasn’t there before, as if turning my head for a minute would cause an event to unfold in the moments I wasn’t looking. That’s what kept me looking at bodies of water constantly, no matter where I found them. Or where they found me. 

I gave in to the rush hour noise on the street above and toiled up the hill from the Thames, taking my place at the bus stop. (Violently scrawled on the bus map in sharpie: “TO BLONDE BLUE EYES GUY ON 65 BUS BROKEN MOTORBIKE – KHARA BOGAL.”) I made it to the tube station and dawdled some more in the park across the way, winding around more groups of schoolchildren who were now flanked by well-meaning parents. Would Jonathan stop running please? And would Patricia put her coat back on? The park teemed with children, and I walked far enough to spot the source: a school, its timed routines laying claim to the organized walkways at exactly the moment I entered. I had to make my exit then, because I could feel the crowd slowly moving towards the tube. 

I sat facing two young boys in sport coats once I got on a tube car. They went back and forth at each other, one of them gripping a novel like a shield. “You're weird.” “I'm not weird I'm sociable. You're antisocial. Look at you with your book.” The boy with the book embarrassingly looked down at its pages, tucking into it for security. They had junk food deficits owed to each other, apparently, as the other boy spat at him playfully in a vie for attention. “You owe me Pringles.” “Yeah, and you owe me two Oreos.” “No, I think I owe you one Oreo.” I couldn’t help but smile at them; they were clever beyond the years they looked, and downright loud in the cramped tube car. “I know I'm smart.” The boy with the book declared this with confidence, but his friend didn’t stop until he had the last word. “Yeah, because you've been studying Latin since you were 6. You could’ve been in regular classes with me. You could've been there with me and we could've been buds. You could've had my smashing accent!” With that, they fell quiet. At the next stop, they got off and I was doomed to a boring ride home, my mind’s eye still flooded with school kids.

The weekend began with a my first trip to Borough Market. THIS WAS BIG. Borough Market is a very, very special place that will fulfill all of your foodie needs from every culture imaginable, each vendor lined up to sell the most delectable things ever. I’m almost positive it’s some sort of heaven on earth. It’s right off of London Bridge station, which is a pretty large tourist hotspot, but that doesn’t ruin the magic. I went with my roommates, and my other friends Laura and Julia. I treated myself to chicken shawarma and some kind of German sponge cake that quite honestly left me in shambles. And the best part is, it’s kind of cheap (considering that you’re still in London and the least you’ll pay for a meal here is five pounds). We then went to the embankment along the Thames, crossing Tower Bridge for the first time. 

Saturday continued the weekend of firsts with a trip to Regent’s Park, often called the “Central Park of London.” Regent’s Park is a Royal Park, meaning it is incredibly well groomed, and hosts the Queen’s garden and other nature preserves/greenery. My roommate Allison and me checked out the Frieze exhibit (fancy name for outdoor sculptures). 

It was during this first time in Regent’s Park that I had a capital-M Moment. Walking up a hill towards the sports fields, the day collapsed behind me, leaving me with my packed lunch and unplanned hours ahead. It was then that it hit me: I loved London. There! I said it. It swelled within me and I couldn’t fight it. These capital-M Moments happened less than you’d think. It was only when I was unencumbered, just me and my backpack and an entire Saturday free. I sat and ate my lunch basking in my newfound glow. It didn’t matter if the sky was grey, it could’ve been any shade and I still would’ve felt bolstered as if lifted by a balloon. I had nothing to worry about right now, here. I watched a couple stick cigarettes behind their ears and kiss on an angled bench. I ate my granola bar; they removed the cigarettes and flicked a light out, smoking in the encroaching fog. As I finished my apple, they steadily got up from the bench, arm in arm; I was alone now. What would I do? That was a question I never had a problem answering in London. 

I remembered an extremely specific view of the skyline I had been seeking out for weeks, but couldn’t locate. I saw it in a picture once. On this particular day, I hadn’t yet heard of Primrose Hill, so I figured Greenwich must definitely be where I could find this view (I was wrong). I had seen all the roses in the Queen’s garden with their names on little poles in the soil. I saw the waterfowl in their preserve, a host of them content to sit on the edge of the pond and stare. I left Regents’ Park ready for a day alone in the soon-coming rain.

On the DLR to Greenwich, I was plunged out over the water, buildings of a London I hadn’t yet encountered introducing themselves through the window. Things were more spaced out on this side of the Thames, I noted. Arriving in Greenwich, I worked my way through the crowds coagulated on each side of the street to the main strip. The Royal Naval Academy’s locked gates suggested exile, surely not enterable, even though groups of people roamed within. I allowed myself a jaunt over to the Queen’s “House” (scarcely populated, except by a wedding party I passed on a terrace in their creams and light pinks) and walked through its backyard. The goal was this: to walk up the hill. There, I believed, would be the view I was searching for. 

It was wet out, so I had to fend with my feet slipping in the semi-soaked grass. Slowly I made it up to the Royal Observatory, once again locked out of gates that I wouldn’t spend money to enter. It was okay – I stood next to the families precariously raising selfie sticks in front of the view, which was grand enough to make me forget about the other view I had ambitiously hoped for. Kids jumped around on small monuments as if they were pieces of a playground, teens flicked through phones while their parents hassled them for a picture. I stood there for a while, buffeted by the descent back downwards. I wouldn’t stop there, though. 

Greenwich park called to me, sitting behind the hill. I walked up into the entrance and was already out of breath. More benches, always more benches to sit on. I saw people huddled over fallen growth from branches breached by wind, human appendages, the passing of seasons. They were inspecting spiky and bulbous things that sprouted on the native trees which I had never seen the likes of before, taking pictures and handling them with the utmost curiosity and reverence. I watched, frozen, as if I were inspecting the growth with them. 

Another man lay further down on the hill, backpack strewn and necessities exposed to the rain. I was held in this junction – wanting to go but transfixed in? the moment. This was a King’s domain, his hunting grounds and gardens, courts for sport and rest tallied as I clambered up yet more hills after abandoning the bench. At the top, I was exhausted, choosing to look at this new view laid out before me. There was the church spire, there was the Catholic school a little down the way, and in the very distance the skyscrapers of the financial district were raised in jarring juxtaposition.

Down near the gated exit, I took to the street in a starved haze. I would wander through the Greenwich museum until getting kicked out by a short-tempered gift shop worker. I would take the steps down to the Greenwich foot tunnel, which ran under the Thames and pass to the other side. I found this likely option of transport quite appealing, and worth the added anxiety. The tunnel was dank and grimy; the water pressed in from all sides, so I walked skittishly and fast to avoid thinking about it. 

Once I emerged from the subterranean pipeline, I appreciated this slice of the Thames, for it always surprised me like every body of water did. But then I had to move on and away from the day, straight through the connecting stations and on towards home.

Frieze sculptures (above and below)

Interesting use of space by this frieze sculpture

Chart of waterfowl in Regent’s Park (by the waterfowl preserve) 

Rose’s in the Queen’s garden area of Regent’s Park

Each type of rose had its own name (with accompanying plaque)

Regent’s Park gate

Feeding swans and ducks in Regent’s Park :)

View from Canary Wharf tube station (on the way to Greenwich)

Outside Canary Wharf tube station

Royal Naval Academy in Greenwich

Anchors outside of the National Maritime Museum

The Queen’s House in Greenwich (she doesn’t actually live here, not anymore at least)

The Royal Observatory (way up on the hill!) in Greenwich

View from the Royal Observatory

In Greenwich Park

View from Greenwich Park

Old abandoned hospital in Greenwich Park

The Cutty Sark in Greenwich

Entrance to Greenwich Foot Tunnel

Inside the Greenwich Foot Tunnel

View from across the Thames (Greenwich on the other side, Royal Naval Academy pictured)

[paigeacrossthepond]

Week four: Georgia O’Keeffe, the Palace of Westminster, and Stratford-upon-Avon

My art class went to the Tate Modern on Tuesday to see the Georgia O’Keeffe temporary exhibit. This was particularly eye-opening; I had a certain idea of what to expect, but much of that was quickly blown out of the water. I only pictured her most famous works, or at least the notion that most of it would be flowers. There was a wide range of her work, from small drawings to landscape paintings, even her husband’s work was featured so as to flesh out her inspirations and background further. I think what most surprised me were the paintings of city landscapes. O’Keeffe had lived in New York City and taken trips to the country; while her paintings of flowers and skulls are the most well-known, seeing this other side to her work was unexpected and exciting. 

This painting (Jimson Weed/White Flower No. 1 - 1932) is the most expensive painting by a woman

Walking across the Millenium Bridge (recognizable from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, also recognizable from being an extra modern bridge in London that represents “new” London and its modernization, but I’m getting on my soapbox here)

Outside of the Tate Modern

My British politics course took a trip to the Palace of Westminster, getting to tour the inside. Westminster is essentially the capitol building (à la Wash., D.C.) of the United Kingdom. Their parliament meets there, with the House of Commons and the House of Lords making up the two houses of parliament. We had a snappy tour guide, who was not shy when confronted with some rude tourists around us. She gave a high-powered rundown of the building, as its neo-Gothic architecture is not only an iconic piece of London’s puzzle but a symbolic emblem of the times in which it was built. Each year, the Queen is processed through the halls of Westminster for the opening of Parliament. We learned about the odd rituals of the houses on the day that the Queen visits, and we were ushered through the meeting rooms for both Houses. Pictures were only allowed in the main hall, a huge, cavernous area with stained glass, effectively used as the welcome area (pictured below). 

My Shakespeare class left for Stratford-upon-Avon on Thursday to see the birthplace and home of Shakespeare – class topics given historical/geographical context! We left for Stratford from Kings Cross, arriving in town around 1 p.m. We would be staying in bed and breakfasts, just one of the cute parts of this trip. Stratford is very small and picturesque in that way, spread out around a compact town centre. After checking in to the bed and breakfast, we headed to Shakespeare’s birthplace, a home he grew up in, which he also spent the first five years of married life at, with his wife Anne Hathaway. 

The front of Shakespeare’s birthplace

We toured the inside, the original room built onto (the original structure is the very left of the house, with the rest expanded to the right) and its upper floor hosting all of the bedrooms. The back “yard” (more of a fancy garden) was taken up by tourists and actors acting out some scenes of Shakespeare, and an attached visitor center accompanied by a modern museum, showcasing some of the first folios of Shakespeare’s plays and a brief history of his life and impact. 

The back garden

Inside the visitor center

Glass etchings of Shakespeare’s characters in the visitor center

After visiting his birthplace, we walked outside of the main strip to see Shakespeare’s grave and Hall’s croft, the home of Shakespeare’s daughter, Susanna Hall and her husband Dr. John Hall. When we came to the church his grave is in, we realized there was a funeral happening inside -- which meant we couldn’t visit his grave, so we worked our way back to tour Hall’s Croft before breaking for dinner.

Hall’s Croft housed Dr. John Hall’s medical practices, arcane by today’s standards. This croft has changed hands many times after being owned by the Halls, turning into a party den for famous celebrities and the elite. Now, it is owned by the Shakespeare Birthplace trust and kept with period furnishings and some of its original walls and flooring. We had a fantastic tour guide, content to explain a painting hung in the dining room for thirty minutes. He showed us details in the painting, which was an image of an Elizabethan family sitting at a meal. Educating us on the finer points of the painting, I now know more about Elizabethan collar ruffles and eating habits than I ever have before. 

Swans in Stratford

Behind Hall’s Croft

The plan for the rest of the night consisted of nourishment in more than one way. Dinner being one of those (properly had in a pub, I had a steak and ale pie), but the other being seeing a performance of King Lear (yes I just referred to Shakespeare as nourishment, chicken soup is good for the soul, like Shakespeare #corny) by the Royal Shakespeare Company. This time we had seats (!!!) in the balcony, a very different vantage point than seeing Shakespeare from the ground at the Globe Theatre. This version of King Lear had a rather minimalist set design, standing in stark contrast to the version of Macbeth we saw. I loved reading King Lear, and this performance was top-tier stuff, in terms of acting and production quality -- would you expect any less from the Royal Shakespeare Company? 

Then it was Friday; breakfast consisted of a delightful English breakfast (cooked by the B&B hosts) and the agenda for the day consisted of Anne Hathaway’s cottage and finally, Kenilworth Castle in Warwickshire. Anne Hathaway’s cottage is tucked a fair distance away from the main area of Stratford, and we took a unique route to get there by foot, walking through a field behind the bed and breakfasts down a slim path flanked by schools and gardens. We hit a backroads stretch, an English village vibe going on with the cottage nearby. As it is set a ways back, the land is accompanied by lavender fields and a wooded area, as well as an extensive garden and more fields (lots of greenery). 

The walk to Anne Hathaway’s cottage 

Anne Hathaway’s cottage

When we got into a coach bus to go to Kenilworth Castle, I had no idea what was in store for us. To be honest, I barely knew it was on the itinerary, glancing at it briefly without paying attention to what it actually was. What I got was one of the most beautiful experiences of my semester so far. 

The castle is in ruins, but it was not apparent that was the case until walking right up to the entrance. There is a welcome center but you have to walk up to the castle; I was still left awestruck even though it was technically crumbling. We spent the entire afternoon here, wandering around the grounds and the gardens. The spectacular views of the English countryside were breathtaking -- exactly what I had in mind when picking out my study abroad destination. Kenilworth Castle is an English Heritage site, with a storied history dating back to the 12th century. Shifting owners multiple times (and the setting for one of the longest sieges in English history), the prevailing narrative involves Robert Dudley and Queen Elizabeth, as illuminated in the castle’s museum. The story goes that Dudley (the Earl of Leicester) fixed it up and added other structures for the Queen, in the hopes of wooing her. She was not allowed to be officially tied romantically to anyone, so ultimately it was a lost cause. But this did not stop them from presumably having an affair; Dudley’s wife died of mysterious causes, creating further suspicion surrounding Dudley and the Queen. 

I have to say this has been one of my favorite days so far -- the beauty of the English countryside and the architecture of this particular castle is pretty devastating (dramatic much) and combine that with the amazing history lessons and, well, getting to actually be where the history happened is INCREDIBLE. I find myself using way too many superlatives now, but that’s the only way I can convey how beautiful this day was. At least I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves. 

The view approaching the castle

Queen Elizabeth’s garden

Queen Elizabeth’s garden pt. 2

Queen Elizabeth’s garden pt. 3

[paigeacrossthepond]

Week three: More art, a walk through London, and Brighton by the beach

This week our art class visited the Tate Britain (different from the Tate Modern!) to see examples of Vorticist and Impressionist art and Surrealist sculptures (Edward Burra and Henry Moore being two standouts in that group). We are learning about Vorticism as a premier British art movement, the group of which was founded not so far from the GEO building here in London. The Vorticist style highlights the industrial values of the prewar era it represents and wartime themes. Learning about these art movements has given me insight into the dominant attitudes in British art during the war. Unfortunately I did not take any pictures during this class. 

For my creative writing class, we have been reading excerpts from literature about London. This has helped me gain a greater understanding of London and its ever-changing and multi-faceted mood through writers who know it like the back of their hand We read the first chapter of Mrs. Dalloway, which takes the reader with Clarissa Dalloway on a walk through Westminster. Our professor Susie has been stressing the importance of observance, a tactic that is paramount to writing about the city. Woolf’s ultra-detailed, transient style in the first chapter of Mrs. Dalloway is heavily informed by London’s similarly transient nature. People pass you in the street, of all creeds and colors, and you’ll probably never see them again. Big Ben chimes, marking the passing of an hour, lost and collapsed into itself. Pictured below are some of the scenes we passed, following Clarissa Dalloway’s path on her walk. 

The Elizabeth Tower, more commonly known as Big Ben

The famed view from St. James’ Park (spot the London Eye)

Last Saturday I planned a day trip to Brighton, which is on the Southern coast of England (right on the English Channel!). My creative writing professor Susie lives there, commuting in to the center by regional train; she invited our class to Brighton for the day to get somewhat of a personalized tour from her. A group of us decided to go for it, so we got up bright and early and headed to Kings Cross where we could catch the train out of London and down to Brighton. I packed a meager snack for the ride, but knew I needed to acquire authentic fish and chips at some point in the day (let’s be real, this was my main goal). When we got to Brighton, Susie was waiting for us in the station with her Dalmatian dog in tow, a beautiful brown tone to its specks. She then led us through a street market that seemed to go on for blocks and blocks, the streets of Brighton relatively cramped for such an illustrious presentation of vendors. We pressed between many racks of multi-colored scarves and dresses, the streets alive with Saturday morning loungers inhaling fancy brunch food on makeshift tables outside. Brighton is on a bit of hill, so from the train station it was a hefty downward slope, which made walking (more so weaving) through these streets a continuous downward, serpentine processional, with many shops to peer into and much to ogle. 

She told us that Brighton was a place for pleasure, where Royalty came to escape the city and relax. The stops along her tour included the Pleasure Gardens and the Royal Pavilion that was built for George, Prince of Wales, retreating there to meet his lover in secret outside of the city. The building is in the Indian style, very reminiscent of “exotic” architecture and familiar in relation to the Taj Mahal (not necessarily a model for it but a similar image that might come to mind). We were eager to get to the coast, with its boardwalk and pebbled beach, so when Susie left us mid-morning we headed to a seaside restaurant (Brighton Music Hall) serving – you guessed it – fish and chips. I was thoroughly pleased, as it was a great meal and a great serving of fish and chips. I also learned that mushy peas are a thing here, served with many meals, not only fish and chips. Mushy peas are just that: mushed peas in a tiny bowl. Oh the wonders of English food. 

After lunch we walked on the pier, with its unusual assortment of carnival rides and junk food. I did not partake, content to roam and observe. The rest of the afternoon was spent lounging on the beach until sunset, which wasn’t completely cozy. The beach is all pebbles, not sand, so it’s an interesting sight. The pebbles’ light brown color matched the slight dreariness of the English Channel waters. Overall, this was quite a different beach experience than what I am used to in the U.S., and all the better for it! After the dinner hour I climbed my way back up the hill, left with impressions of Brighton as a vibrant and unique city, indeed a place of leisure and pleasure. The sea breeze scent still rose from my clothes, and residue from the pebbles announced themselves on my black pants. I considered it a very successful day trip, and the first of many. 

Banksy

Pleasure gardens with the Royal Pavilion in the background

The Royal Pavilion

Susie’s dalmatian :) 

FISH AND CHIPS!!! 

By the beach, with the pier in the distance

The pier (semi-carnival, semi-arcade)

A Brighton sunset

[paigeacrossthepond]

Week two continued: Björk and Bath (and also that ancient formation of rocks)

I had my eyes on a certain exhibition in the city -- and it was none other than the musician Björk’s! This was quite a big deal for me, because I have found myself personally invested in her music over the past year, especially with the help of her amazing, earth-shattering music videos (shameless plug). This exhibition was focused on the incredible technology of her most recent music videos, which showcase virtual reality experiences, known simply as VR. VR is the usage of extremely new technology (simply put: 3D goggles) to amplify the impact of a piece of media. 

Since my art class had a session at Somerset House, I made my way over to the exhibit right after we finished. First, my exhibit time slot group was ushered into a room with a giant screen on each side. Björk’s video for Black Lake played on each, with surround sound filling up the room from end to end. Similar VR experiences for the videos Stonemilker, Mouth Mantra, and Notget were all enhanced by the 3D goggle technology. The final VR experience was a bit different from the others though. The final video was for her song Quicksand, and usually the 3D goggles allow you a deeper perspective, being able to spin around on a chair and see a landscape (in 360 degrees). If your head moves up, you see the sky in the video. If you look down at your feet, you’ll see the video’s ground. The videos are shot with a 360 degree camera. However, the Quicksand video had a much deeper perspective range, with Björk a moving figure in the distance, shifting and growing with every step. She was made of little bits and pieces that rearranged and reformed, slowly growing in height above the viewer (me, of course, who was slightly freaking out over a larger-than-life-sized robot Björk). The other VR videos with goggles were seated on a spinning stool, so as to facilitate a full range of movement. The goggles in this VR were instead hanging from the ceiling, with the viewer able to walk around and explore the inner world of the video further. Stuck in place (because, to be honest, I was scared) I watched the video take its course. 

That being said, the exhibit was very surreal; the new technology certainly intensified this, as I felt apart of a future world, one that has enormous robot Björks and goggles that have an entire, alive-and-breathing world inside of them. It made me feel both closer and farther from her. If you’ve seen her Stonemilker music video (it's on YouTube 360) Björk is right there conversing with you and you can see her pimples and her real-life self, but then in Mouth Mantra, which is just the inside of her mouth, it begs a question that I think Björk is trying to get at as an artist: is Björk a full, encapsulating body and human that communicates a song or is it the various parts of her body that communicate a song? Which in turn makes the viewer (in my case) question: how close should we feel to Björk? Or, for that matter, any artist? 

VR creates a new way to experience and view art. It is cutting edge, while also allowing the viewer to get up close and personal with an artist and their work. In this way, VR is a disorienting but heightened format that doesn’t seem to have any limits, at least currently. I walked out of the exhibit and into the streets of London confused, touched, unsettled by what I had just experienced. The songs were all from Björk’s album Vulnicura, a hugely personal and emotional album about her failing relationship with her ex-partner. VR is the best format to use for this music; it adds a fresh emotional dimension that allows the viewer to have a private reaction -- thereby extending further a piece of art’s reach and its abilities. 

On Friday, a bunch of the students in my program were doing an organized trip to Stonehenge and Bath via Anderson Tours, so I bought a ticket as well because it was as good a time as any for it. I had to leave the house relatively early to be at the bus stop outside the Baker Street tube station, boarding just after 9 a.m. Our on-board tour guide was helpful, giving a mini-lesson on British history pertaining to the two places we were headed. Stonehenge is in the countryside, in an area which was only a couple hours drive from London. Arriving to it was interesting because it’s visible from the road; the moment I saw it, I got a little jolt of recognition, until the bus pulled up to a rather lengthy line outside of the entrance. Thankfully we didn’t wait in the line for too long, pulling into the outside welcome area for Stonehenge. No, you can’t pull straight up to Stonehenge (don’t laugh at me but for some reason I thought that was kinda how it worked). There is a visitor’s center that’s shiny and brand-spanking new, and hosts important historical information regarding not only Stonehenge’s background, but its very infrastructure. To get up (it’s on somewhat of a hill) to Stonehenge, you can either walk (very hilly and ill-advised) or board a shuttle. I chose the shuttle as you can imagine. We were given audio guides to take with us to the actual site, so I allowed the soothing British voice to whisk me back a few hundred years to the past. 

Atop the hill, there is a carefully marked perimeter and path to keep any stray tourists from bounding onto the precious and fragile grass near the rocks. This is because the land is just that – fragile – and needs to be preserved if future tourists are to witness it in the years to come. The narrator of the audio guide intoned softly in my ear, fleshing out a small history of the stones and offering many theories about their origin. Being able to see Stonehenge in person really makes their mystery palpable. Peering through the rocks into the circle’s center, you try to guess at what it could all mean, what it does mean – but draw a blank. At least I did. It was a gorgeous day with wisps of clouds high above the rocks, the wind picking up and blowing my hair in all directions. I tried hard to soak in the moment, and I think I did. I stood feet away from one of mankind’s biggest mysteries, and could barely wrap my head around it. I shuffled back to the shuttle, still stumped, looking back forlornly, trying to get one last glimpse. We were herded into neat lines to wait for our shuttle. But I kept looking back. I had to accept that Stonehenge would always be elusive; even as I stared straight at it, it didn’t reveal itself in the light of day. 

UP CLOSE

The view from the walk up to Stonehenge

Visitor center

Reproduction of the huts the people and workers involved in/living near Stonehenge would have had

The predicted way that the stones were rolled up the hill and moved into formation

With that, we boarded the bus again and headed to Bath. The ride to Bath was amazing – the countryside beckoned from the bus window, and I couldn’t help but love it. We rode through the outer areas of Bath until getting to the center of town, being dropped off and free to roam. I didn’t buy a ticket into the Roman bathhouse, which was partly due to it being, well, a fancy bath. I could do without it for now, instead opting to explore alone along the Bath canal walk. I walked excitedly away from the group, determined to find a picturesque lunch spot. The canal walk was perfect for this, as I got to see many different parts of the city in one swoop. I sat down for lunch on a bench along the canal and had a moment of utter clarity and happiness: this was what I would come to love most about being abroad. A new city, exploring alone, enjoying the day as it unfolded without responsibility or care. I relished it, as my afternoon in Bath was an introduction to surely many similar days that were to come.

I bought some postcards in Bath, for it was my favorite place I visited so far (something to write home about!). All of the walking had exhausted me once the group reunited by the bus stop; the ride back to London was around three hours, and the last sights of the countryside dwindled away in the encroaching sunset.

Well-deserved Cornish ice cream after a day in Bath

On Sunday, I visited Abbey Road with some of the girls from my program. Even though it’s an iconic spot, it’s still just a road, with impatient and angry drivers waiting to pass peacefully without hitting any of the tourists lined up to cross the road. 

The amazing Beatles puns used to direct excited pen-wielding fans to a better place to leave their names

Left my (nick)name :)

Inside the gift shop (lots of familiar faces)

That was week two! Until next time...

[paigeacrossthepond]

Week two: bits & pieces

My bigger post is coming soon after this, and it involves two B’s. But first, a look at the smaller but no less important events of the week. 

Art History class at the Courtauld Gallery 9/12/16

Something wonderful about my art history course is that class is held at a different gallery around London every Tuesday. Last week’s class was held at the Courtauld Gallery within Somerset House, also involving a soon-to-be-revealed big B. 

As we are just getting into the beginnings of modern art as an unintentional movement, we started out here because it houses early impressionist paintings and sparse examples of Fauvism (“wild beasts”). Impressionists on exhibit include Manet, Van Gogh, and Degas. 

Pictures from inside Somerset House’s courtyard, and #art 

Macbeth at the Globe Theatre 9/13/16

For my Shakespeare class, we saw a production of Macbeth shortly after reading it, which was my first time experiencing a live performance of a Shakespeare play. Interestingly enough, the current director of the Globe is not a self-professed lover of Shakespeare, instead notably saying that she is rather indifferent to the bard. This made for a reasonably modern production, with special effects, lights, live music, and enhanced violence being factors that had a role in the impression it left (these things not necessarily required of a Shakespeare play). As this was my first live Shakespeare experience, I couldn’t compare it to other productions in terms of quality or a greater framework of reference, but I will say that it was intense. We had tickets to be groundlings, which means that we stood “in the pit” as commoners would have done when Shakespeare’s plays were originally performed. 

The Globe Theatre is located right on the Thames near the London Bridge station, and it stands out. It’s a recreation of the original Globe Theatre, which burned down due to the poor combination of ignited cannon + thatched roof = fire in 1613. Its rebuilding/reconstruction was initiated by actor and director Sam Wanamaker, officially reopening in 1997. This created some confusion for Allison and I when we arrived to the theatre; there is the Globe theatre and a separate Sam Wanamaker playhouse. We ended up standing in a motionless line on the wrong side. Oops. We made it inside the right theatre quickly after we realized the error of our ways. 

No pics allowed during the performance; this is a shot before the madness ;) “madness” not limited to the younger school kids in front of me who were extremely rude during the performance... but you didn’t hear that from me

P.S. It’s an open air theatre... so you’re basically outside standing in a dirt pit... talk about an authentic experience 

[paigeacrossthepond]

Weekend one in pictures

The first weekend was relatively quiet and I took some time to relax and rest. A trip to Hyde Park/Kensington Gardens and a scavenger hunt at the British Museum, courtesy of #THATMuse on Friday encompassed most of the activities that didn’t involve sleeping. 

Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens

I GOT SUPER LOST AND WANDERED FOR OVER AN HOUR TRYING TO FIND MY FRIENDS. I will walk around Hyde Park next time with a map.... because it is humongous. The white architecture is the only pic from Kensington Gardens (I think I was too lost to actually find or even look at the “garden” part). 

This was a very fatigued thumbs up after literally running around the British Museum for a historical scavenger hunt, aiming to make the museum’s collection a little less daunting and create a jumping off point for further discoveries inside. I was absolutely dead, but kudos to the scavenger hunt organizer Daisy de Plume, who runs the company #THATMuse and just relocated to London for this project, and also my housemate Allison, who is interning for her! 

[paigeacrossthepond]

Artsier stuff, stumbling upon Trafalgar Square, and the Frankie function

After writing yesterday’s two posts, I got to thinking about my feeeEEeeEeeelings. I think I had a breakthrough, too. I had unexplainably felt detached during my first few days in London, like I was watching a movie with the sound off. Much of the first week was overwhelming, although I didn’t feel overwhelmed until yesterday. I realized what I was missing was emotional context; it felt like I was just dropped down in London for the week, shown around a bit, and then would be leaving soon and that’d be it. But it’s not. It’s probably pretty common for study abroad students to feel this way, whether it be through culture shock, the shock of being in a new place and having to start over, or trying to acclimate past the first week. I do expect that next week will allow me more time to acclimate with a more normal school schedule, so that is comforting. 

I also realize that Thursday was the first day where I reconnected with myself. It felt like moving to a new city with new people around me put me out of touch with myself, the things I hold closely as defining personality traits untethered in the wake of everything being new. So, how to recollect pieces of myself around the city? Thursday gave me some answers, and I was able to formulate my thoughts a bit better after resting and thinking more yesterday. 

Art class at the National Gallery, and then WHAM Trafalgar Square

My first art history class was mostly held at the National Gallery, which is practically attached to Trafalgar Square. I found this out when I finally looked up and around me just as I walked into the gallery. That’s the thing about being new to London and only starting to get acquainted with its layout; I have more often stumbled upon huge landmarks than actively searched them out. And it was a beautiful day with a persistent blue sky, so I got to spend some time lounging in the square, perched on a water fountain’s edge and soaking in the moment. 

Fave pieces of art in the National Gallery, #viewz in the square, and me ft. giant lion (idk why I’m making peace signs??? I think the heat got to me) 

F R A N K I E  C O S M O S

After heading back from Trafalgar Square, I had plans to see a Frankie Cosmos gig in Tufnell Park. One of the great perks of being in London and having an oyster card is being able to check out gigs at a moment’s notice, which is kind of a big deal for me. I also wasn’t sure if I would be able to see Frankie while in London, but it worked out. :-) 

Greta Kline’s project Frankie Cosmos is typically a solo endeavor, but is expanded to a full band on this tour, in support of her most recent album Next Thing (2016). I was smitten with this album last spring, and getting to revisit one of my favorite albums of the year by hearing it live was fantastic.

I met a girl named Rebecca while waiting in the queue to get in, and we swapped different perspectives on college in the U.S. vs. the U.K. She was the first British person of my age that I talked to so far! 

I was nearly front row and there was enough room to dance, two things that make a live show that much better. Frankie mostly performed her poppier tracks to the surprisingly mixed crowd of young and old. After the show Frankie signed my poster -- she is incredibly nice, always a good thing to learn about people you idolize from a distance. 

PINK LIGHTS (and an unwashed-out pic because Frankie’s purple guitar is everything) 

Those two Thursday activities set me back on the path to finding more emotional connection in an extremely new place, with art and music obviously being points of relation and feeling for me. Still can’t end posts without being awkward. Welp. 

[paigeacrossthepond]

Recap time!

Okay, I will admit my shortcomings as a blogger this first week: I am going to inundate you with information and then hopefully catch my stride when I am finished with these updates. I would like to be more detail-oriented when blogging by next week, but right now I am going to present a slapdash recap of Monday through Thursday (9/5/16 - 9/7/16). Here we go! 

Monday: On-site Orientation and Strange Quirks

Monday was not my first official day of class, but an orientation session more focused on gaining a familiarity with the program and its building, which was built in the 1700s and still has its original wood walls. As I researched the program, there was a certain stress on the history aspect, not only about London itself, but also the district where the school is. The Bloomsbury district, as I would soon learn, is a business hub while also being a literary hub. *Hannah Montana’s “Best of Both Worlds” plays softly in background* The program director went over the particular “don’ts” of our time here, including rules for being students in London. For example, class is mandatory (unless you are medically excused) because many people used to fake their way through immigration by saying they were a “student,” and then take advantage of the city without a real reason to be staying abroad for so long. On the way back to my homestay, I took a different route from the one that Pauline showed us which ends at Holborn, instead stumbling upon King’s Cross/St. Pancras station in all its glory.

St. Pancras with King’s Cross somewhere nearby, linked together in the station name (not exactly sure what goes on inside here other than the Harry Potter fan trap Platform 9 3/4, but this is not where that scene was shot) 

Edit: After discovering the exact layout of the King’s Cross/St. Pancras station, I come with an update. King’s Cross is the station, within which is Platform 9 3/4, and the building pictured above is St. Pancras, which is now a hotel #debunked

The strange quirk of Monday was sitting down to dinner with my housemate Bridgette and having Pauline offer us a concoction produced by Heinz called salad cream, which is not available in the United States. I was skeptical that it would be good on salad, as it is mainly mayonnaise with a hint of tanginess. I did not particularly care for it, but that doesn’t make it any less interesting. 

Tuesday: Leather Lane Market and Tower of London

On Tuesday, the program outing was to the Tower of London, with a small tour around the Bloomsbury area beforehand. The assistant director of the program, Mary, showed us around and took us to Leather Lane Market, also close to the GEO Centre. Leather Lane market offers a variety of diverse (and cheap!) food carts, and it was great to go down an alleyway and find gems. One of my goals while being abroad is not to get caught up in so-called “tourist traps;” though seeing tourist destinations is not bad and I will surely see my fair share of them, I would like to get more of a feel for those hidden gems that Londoners are privy to and immerse myself in the remarkable diversity of this city. I had some delicious Korean pork for about 5 pounds. 

Couldn’t resist a food pic ;)

We then took the Thames clipper (a boat available to those with a transport card) to the Tower of London. This is where I’d like to improve my knowledge -- I am eager to learn more British history when my history class at GEO starts up, but I went to the tower almost completely unfamiliar with it. The tour guide did an ample job of filling me in on its importance as a major London historical site. It was the mainstay/home for prisoners and royalty alike from 1066 to the early 20th century in the center of the city, with the castle entrenched, as it is now, in a more modern London. 

The Tower houses the crown jewels, which are on exhibition. This exhibition was absolutely incredible to see, and actually blindsided me with emotion. There are a number of chambers that lead up to the crown jewels; on display in the outer rooms are embroideries, swords, and the royal spoon, but of course, it is the jewels that take the cake. It is very dark in the room, and visitors stand on a conveyor belt that takes them past each piece. This adds up to quite a powerful presentation of royal dynasty and spirituality (matched by the glittering jewels). You could say I was blown away. 

Views from the Thames clipper including odd Tate Modern piece on the water and a sign for the Globe Theatre which is merely a stand-in for my excitement over being able to see both Macbeth and The Merchant of Venice there soon

Tower of London and Tower Bridge 

Wednesday: Camden Market and Creative Writing

Wednesday was my first real day of class. I will usually have my Shakespeare class Wednesday mornings but the professor is an actress and had a random job call-in, so she cancelled it for the day. Luckily for me, this worked out well. I had bought tickets to a gig for Thursday night and wanted to familiarize myself with the route to the venue, and also hit up Camden Market, a more idiosyncratic tourist area. I got up pretty early and planned out my route while I was on wifi, writing down instructions in my phone since I didn’t have a U.K. phone plan yet. This method was probably better since I want to navigate independently and not rely on GPS all the time anyways. I found the venue easily, which was located in Tufnell Park and right across from the tube station. Then I caught the tube to Camden, again quite easily locating the market area and wandering around before trying out some local street food. 

Sadiq Khan’s (mayor of London) new initiative spotted en route to Camden

Pictures from my Camden excursion featuring my artisan flatbread lunch (this sounds pretentious now but Camden is known for food like this! And of course I had to take a picture) 

Found a Banksy in Camden (can’t tell whether it’s real or a knockoff)

I worked my way back to the GEO Centre for my afternoon class, Creative Writing, running into some confusion along the way. I found it ironic that I didn’t get lost in a completely new area alone with written instructions, but got lost on the way to my school, which I had been walking to for almost three days at this point. This really highlights the serpentine layout of London -- one wrong turn and it’s all over. There are a lot of smaller (one might even say hidden) streets that diverge from the bigger streets too, which might sound obvious but I’ve never lived in an urban metropolis like this before. What I guess I mean is that London is huge. And there are many ways you can go wrong when navigating, this being my first slip-up in an inevitable chain of mistakes to come during my time here. I did find my way back to the school after getting on the tube again and starting over. 

I am excited to take another creative writing class, since I have been working away from that side of my English major and haven’t been in touch with a purely creative endeavor in a while. In class, we went through the syllabus and then the professor, Susie, took us around to Bloomsbury’s literary landmarks. These included the pub that Charles Dickens often went to, Sylvia Plath’s and Ted Hughes’ honeymoon apartment, and Parliament Square, where Virginia Woolf sat and wrote, and also close to where she lived. Finally we headed to the British Library and viewed their special collection of documents to wrap up class. 

So those were my first three weekdays in London! Most of this was for my own purposes of documentation. Now that I write all of this out it becomes clearer to me that in these early stages of my study abroad, everything still feels very unreal. Not in a dreamy way, but in a lack of structure and “I’m doing really random things in a foreign country that I can’t quite piece together yet” way. I have to keep reminding myself that I will be here for three months. I have hopes that my classes will help with these feelings and start to piece together what is to come. 

[paigeacrossthepond]

It’s not gonna break you, it’s just gonna shake you

Here it is. My first official blog post! In this space I will be recording my study abroad experience in London, England with the GEO program through the University of Oregon (side note: see the link at the top if this intrigues you). I purposely didn’t post before the term started because to be quite honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect, dutifully holding off the vague assumptions I had gathered from my fair amount of internet research. Now I’m bringing you a by-the-second (okay maybe not) account of London in real life, as it stands, nearly a week into my trip. 

The Journey: Departure and Arrival 9/4/16

Oh boy. I actually shouldn’t start off like that because it submits a bleak outlook on the entire process, but I suppose if those words were my first instinct then they must stay. Without a doubt the most dreaded part of this experience came before my arrival. Preparing for a trip like this was daunting, partly because of the necessary measures that need to be taken, and partly because of the millions of thoughts that run through your head before heading out. I will say that packing and arriving at the airport went smoother than expected, and the heady excitement leading up to my departure was notably less smooth, resembling more of a bumpy rollercoaster ride. 

It is interesting that after being in London for a few days it feels like everything I felt beforehand has been erased, as if my psyche demanded the most of me and then gave up. Rationalizing flying in a tube over the North Atlantic is quite a feat, and then at some point you give in to all of the incomprehensible things studying abroad demands of you and call it good. When I got on my flight Saturday night, it felt like a balloon was being blown up inside me, a balloon that said “Hey kid, you’re about to undertake this really awesome and big task so pull it together.” And I think I mostly listened to it. 

Flying was particularly not fun because I struggled to catch those precious z’s. I slept for tops forty-five minutes and waited the rest of the flight to see the dawn of a new time zone (literally). Nothing will capture the strangeness of flying directly over the Thames and seeing all the major landmarks in miniature. It’s almost comical how everything is reduced to its essence from that high up.

Map supplied by the handy tracker screen on Delta flights and a view of the English countryside before touching down

I caught a pre-scheduled cab to my homestay mid-afternoon on Sunday, and was taken aback by how the drivers drove with abandon throughout the surrounding semi-suburban areas, especially with the streets being so tiny! This casual yet fast movement of traffic seemed to foreshadow the style of travel I would soon identify while walking in the city. 

Once I arrived at my homestay our host mom Pauline invited us to go to a festival along the Thames, celebrating the anniversary of the Great Fire of London in 1666. In a very unique fashion, the city of London decided to celebrate by building a small-scale version of London out of wood and then burning it directly on the Thames. Pauline showed us how to get to our school at the GEO London Centre before heading to Southbank, this being my first introduction to transport in the city as well. 

The building my school is housed in

To watch them burn mini London, we walked along the south bank of the Thames (called Southbank), and got to see the iconic sights of London while getting our first taste of “city life.” 

Central London views featuring some gloomy weather -- Big Ben is even more majestic in person! 

The huge crowd along the Thames was less intimidating than expected. I have recognized a difference between large American crowds vs. large British crowds; the crowd on Sunday was rather manageable despite being tightly packed, and people were less prone to pushing and shoving, the crowd moving at a reasonable pace as everyone ambled up to the nearest tube station when the event was over. I wasn’t able to get pictures of mini London on fire due to the sheer amount of people in front of me, but I saw the vestiges of smoke drifting up into the atmosphere. 

Sunday was a quick introduction to Central London and its relation to North Harrow, where my homestay is located, as well as a general pace-setter for the week ahead. It was quite a surreal introduction too -- from the unusual and fiery celebration method to the shock of seeing much-googled landmarks in real life -- my first day here is something I won’t forget anytime soon. The title of this post is a lyric from Angel Olsen’s song “Not Gonna Kill You,” which I think will have a growing importance to my experiences abroad (also a song recommendation as I will never shake my music journalist inclination). I have realized I’m not good at ending blog posts... Although I am writing this a week later because I have been so busy getting acquainted with London. Some grace and eloquence will have to be saved for a more immediate blog post. Let’s end with a picture for now.