No sassy little girls to deceive me

It is 6:59am, and I am just getting back to the house after leaving at 9:30pm the previous evening.

I also went to a strip club. But it was sadly rather disappointing. Though it was sort of funny to realize that the establishment is right down the street from where I lived the first time I studied in London. Fancy that--such a well kept "Secret," as the place's name would attest.

More later. I should probably sleep, even though it's a legitimate hour to start the day, let alone finish it.

Easy Come Easy Go...AWESOME FLAT!

This morning I cashed a hefty sum in travelers checks, and got two envelopes full of British currency.

After a tasty vegetarian English Breakfast and some tea at a small cafe, I met Rebecca and her mother and the three of us headed to Wood Green to FINALIZE OUR TENANCY AGREEMENT!

Big moment guys. And how do you know it was a big moment?

Because there was a lot of money involved.

And I didn't get to keep it.

That's right, Rebecca and I had to hand over upwards of three £Gs (grands, not gangstas). It was a bit painful, I felt slightly light headed. But I did appreciate my purse zipping closed with ease once the voluptuous envelopes had been deflated.

So, friends, I have a flat...it is actually official now--signed in three copies and backed by the strongest guarantor there is:

cash.

I was born to live in London and eat herbs

Long ago in a lost time and place, the youngest daughter of a Jewish family found herself reading the Four Questions as Passover Seder. As she exercised her newfound skill of reading, she proudly orated for the entirety of the house's congregation the first and then the second question...

"Why is it that on all other nights we eat all kinds of herbs, but on this night we eat only bitter herbs?"

Laughter and sniggers peeled forth from the critical congregation as family and friends alike found themselves incapable at stifling their amusement at the small child's mispronunciation of the silent "h" in herbs.

Well, no more.

For that little girl has grown up into an albeit little but sassy young woman who finds herself in another country, where she is not mocked for her mistake! No no, she is PRAISED! Nay, HAILED AND BESTOWED WITH VARIOUS HONORS AND TITLES AND OTHER MEMORABILIA OF ADMIRATION!!! for her pronunciation of "herbs."

For indeed, friends, the British, a much older and wiser culture than the Americans, know how to pronounce their words. They pronounce the h in herbs, as one may notice in any Herbal Essences commercial or when someone is telling you their post code, which happens to have an h in it, at which point they'll say "haych"--like saying "hay" with ch on the end.

I'll admit, at first I was quite confused--what is the haych? What letter is this that I have up until now been completely ignorant of?

Ah, I see. It is the CORRECT way of saying h and herbs!

So to all you rebels across the pond, please silence your twatish nonsense and learn to pronounce things properly. Herb wants his herbs, and he wants his name and his greens pronounced correctly. And so do I.

----

Oh, and our offer on the flat was accepted! We finalize the paperwork and the balance tomorrow (Tuesday)!

Amusing Odds and Ends

After putting down the deposit, I was back in Finsbury Park by early afternoon, both elated and exhausted--we had accomplished something! My birthday had found us a great flat, and the day after had found us each out 150 quid for the deposit. Not bad at all!

I decided I was taking the rest of the day off. So I grabbed the quilt made by my Patron, made some tea and got a bowl of grapes, and I settled into the couch to watch Twilight.

Shut up.

I decided I had nothing to lose, and there wasn't anything else I wanted to watch, so I'd give it a try. I can say now that I have a real reason to dislike Twilight other than just knowing it was crap--because now I've watched it. I'll admit, though, the first one was pretty amusing in a it's-just-so-bad-it's-good way. Midway through, one of mine hosts joined me and we watched/mocked it together. Her boyfriend then arrived and he joined is as well as we watched the second one--which honestly just didn't make sense half the time. But I guess the main audience of these films is too busy drooling over the boys to notice that what's happening in front of them is completely inexplicable.

So yeah. In a new country, using new money, learning the ins and outs of the renting market, and watching Twilight. It's just been one week full of new experiences.

Which brings me to another.

Wasting time on Stroud Green Rd during my viewings, I stopped in at a cheapo store to see what sort of fun gadgets they had. In addition to mugs and kitchenware, bedding and mats, and some various school supplies, there was also a mouse pad with a rather disturbing supposedly sexy woman on it. And the squishy bump that you rest your wrist on was made up her boobs--so there was a nice little dip in the middle to rest in.. But you could have your choice of the left or the right boob in case you needed a bit more cushioning.

Then I got to the toy section. In addition to packaged of toy animals that all seemed to be in fornicating positions, there was black furry luv cuffs between toy cars and puzzles. And then the dolls. There were plastic dolls on sale, and for this particular brand there was a white doll and a black doll. The label on the white doll's packaging said "Gemma." Ah, ok, so that's the brand, ie, the name of the doll. Little Gemma! How adorable.

The black doll's name? "My friend."

Wow. In the immortal words of Rebecca, I don't think we even need to discuss this.

---

What other interesting things are there? Oh, the word twat. Yes, very offensive to us Americans, no?

Not here in Britain! I mean, sure, it's a naughty word, but it's thrown around quite liberally. But what makes it so much more amusing is the pronunciation. We say twat, rhyming with "swat." Mine hosts and the rest of the English, as far as I know, say twat, rhyming with cat.

Just say it yourself a few times, with a British accent, perhaps in the context of "What a complete and utter twat!" and you'll see why it's so amusing.

----

Earlier this week there was also a great culture clash in the realm of shrimp chips versus prawn crackers (which is still utterly amusing).

Thrift stores and consignment shops versus charity shops.

It took a few minutes to get on the same wavelength. As I tried to explain myself, Marianne finally leaned forward and, very slowly and loudly, asked me

"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?"

Clearly, we were speaking different languages. At first mine hosts thought that by thrift stores I meant places like Costco, so I had to explain that thrift stores are used clothing and things sold for cheap, oftentimes connected to some sort of philanthropic initiative. Ah, a charity shop!

Contact!

But what was this consignment shop business? The idea was unheard of. Getting money for your used clothing? Sharing the profits with the shop?

Marianne was intrigued. Charity is good and all, but if you can make a few quid out of it, why not?

Another triumph for the American pursuit of capitalist gain!

----

I won't go into great detail, here, but I've really been enjoying British tv. During the day I often watch Top Gear, the greatest car show ever. But in the evening I've watched some programs with the girls, and am thoroughly amazed. Honestly, I can't make an accurate comparison because I don't watch reality tv in the US. But I think it's automatically more amusing over here because there are British people involved.

Some of the programs I've watched:

The X Factor--basically the same as American Idol, but in the UK. They let some truly horrid people pass through. And it's really addicting.

Don't Tell the Bride--a couple gets 12000 quid to plan their wedding...but on the condition that the groom plans everything without telling the bride anything. Apparently what usually happens is the guy is more or less disorganized, spends a ton of money on the stag party and other stuff, and then leaves his bridge without a hair stylist and without a hen party. Also, the men usually pick exactly what the bride said she didn't want when the camera was on her earlier, but it all generally turns out alright in the end--she's just so happy to be getting married that it doesn't really matter.

Young, Dumb, and Living Off Mum--Wow. Basically, a bunch of "kids" (early 20s and thereabouts) who have no life skills are kicked out of the house and live together, having to learn how to do laundry, cook, get jobs, etc. There are work challenges, and then eliminations based on who isn't making progress. Whoever wins gets a trip around the world. As amusing as it is, though, the show is desperately flawed. The kids who need the help the most and aren't learning are kicked out and sent back home to "Mum," while rather than making a well-balanced life the goal, instead it's a trip around the world. So...after finally learning more or less how to do shit, all of a sudden they don't have to do anything anymore! And can go off gallivanting around the world for free. Ironic?

---

Oh, and it's true--often times they don't get what you mean when you say bathroom or restroom. Rebecca asked if she could use the bathroom/restroom in the Muswell Hill flat, and the tenant was thoroughly confused until I jumped in and said "loo." It just feels a bit awkward saying words like that in anything but an English accent, though.

The Great Flat Hunt Concludes

WE HAVE PUT A DEPOSIT DOWN ON A FLAT!

It's all very exciting. So exciting that it took a great deal of time to recover from the shock, thus explaining why this post is so late.

After searching for a week, fate seemed to smile upon Rebecca and me. It was time for a change--I had seen too many hovels and talked to too many agents. Something had to give, to set the natural balance straight.

Wednesday was a particularly dark day. I spent the morning doing the usual internet searches and desperate calls to old and new agencies, seeing what they had available. I then set up an appointment and, after having some lunch, set out. I took a bus instead of taking the tube because Mine Host pointed out that it would be less aggravating and cheaper. Ironically, though, I needed to top up my Oyster card but forgot to do it, so I had to buy a cash ticket at the bus stop, which was 2 quid instead of the 1.20 with the oyster. So that sucked. Also, I had gotten directions to the agency via the station, not the bus stop. I was running late and called multiple times trying to let the agent know, but he was not answering his phone. Frazzled, I got off the bus and was completely disoriented. I couldn't find anyone trustworthy to ask, or maybe I was just too flustered. In any case, I called a few more times (I definitely called more than 5 times), and the agent didn't answer. Realizing I was going to be late for my second appointment, I hopped back on the bus, more than aggravated.

When I called the agent with whom I had the second appointment, he, to my great joy, answered. He also arranged to pick me up from a bus stop so I didn't waste more time on the bus than necessary. He really was a fine fellow, very nice. We chatted about this and that, and about his daughter receiving her A Level results the following morning. I saw a flat that wasn't quite as bad as I had seen before, but I wasn't sure. It was worth considering.

When I got home, though, I was exhausted and pretty low. Not only had the flat hunt not greatly improved, but it was worsened by a rather harsh slap on the face from Reality. While waiting at the bus stop for the second agent to pick me up, I saw a woman and her young daughter. The woman was clearly distraught. She was on the phone, crying. As she walked by once or twice I heard her shaking voice crack as she explained to the person on the phone that she was only receiving 20 quid a week for child support, and asking desperately "What can you do with 20 quid a week?! Nothing!" I sat and listened and felt everything inside me sink a little lower. There wasn't really anything I could do. When she had gone I felt even worse, wondering if I should have offered her some money, or at least bus fare somewhere. A few days earlier a man with a small dog asked me if I could spare some change, offering to make me a wire flower in exchange. Caught off guard, I said I didn't have any change--which wasn't true. I immediately regretted it, and even tried to catch up with the fellow after getting some change out (I didn't want him to see how much I had, I was too ashamed). I missed him, though. It's hard to say no to people in general, but he offered to essentially earn my charity, and I turned him down. I was really upset about it for a while, and it still bothers me sometimes.

So yeah, things got pretty bleak for a while. But Friday...there was something special about Friday, I could just feel it. People began reminding me on Thursday, 19 August, that Friday would be different. Why? Oh yeah, it would be 20 August--you know, my birthday.

Totally forgot that.

Thursday night still found me busy with the flat hunt. That afternoon/early evening, I had 3 viewings on Stroud Green Road at above-retail flats. The first one had a dryer running, and I noticed that the large hose that usually goes from the dryer to outside was lying on the floor, pumping hot air exhaust into the room. I was a little unnerved. Then I heard the asking price: 300 pounds. WOW. Um, that's ridiculous for a crummy city flat above a store. Then I found myself with an hour to waste before my second viewing just a few doors down. I walked around a beautiful residential neighborhood across the street, wandering through the rows and rows of Victorian houses. I wish I had my camera, it was lovely. Lovely, actually, doesn't even describe it. It was quaint, it was perfect--cue settling down hormones now. After that got a bit awkward, though, since I was just this rando standing around in these peoples neighborhoods, I went back to the main road and went into a little clothing store. I chatted with the man running it, mentioning I was looking for flats.

"Oh, you saw no. 51? That's a good building. Oh, you didn't like it?"

"No, not really, but mostly it's out of my price range."

"Really...? What are they asking for it?"

"300 per week..that's just too much for me right now."

*laughs* "It's not 300! Who told you that?! The agent?"

So yeah...the shop owner knew the landlord for the building with the flat I had seen earlier. He called the landlord then and there, chatted about one thing or another, then asked if the landlord knew the estate agent was telling tenants the flat was going for 300pw. After hanging up, the man laughed and said the landlord verified that, indeed, the flat was not going for 300pw. The real asking price was 250pw. So I wonder who gets those 50 odd pounds...

Yeah. Scum bag. I'm glad I was cheeky with the agent and told him to dress better next time I saw him (he was exercising Casual Thursday).

Then I saw the next two flats. The ground floor one was a cave. Horrible. The top floor one was not bad, comparably. It was airy and bright, had a patio and a fire escape. But it was on a busy street and sparsely furnished--we'd really have to fill it out. It was an option, though. And luckily, Rebecca was to show up the next day!

My birthday!

I had arranged some appointments later in the day for us to go to once Rebecca and her mother had arrived and gotten settled at the hotel. Major props to the flatmate for pushing through any jetlag and the strains of travel to hit the ground running and LOOK FOR A FLAT! She met me in Finsbury Park and we both got on our computers. I taught her the ways of The Great Flat Hunt. IE, you sit on your but and sift through online ads, clicking "show interest" buttons and taking down numbers to call. Then you call and hear that the place you called about is already gone, ask if there is anything else similar, hear that there isn't, and finish the call by leaving your details and asking them to call you if anything comes up. Then, we checked a new site--she had sent it to me in an email the day before, but I hadn't had a chance to look at it.

Then we found it.

Well, two places, actually. One in Muswell Hill and another somewhere else that doesn't matter. As Rebecca read me the agency's number so I could call about the Muswell Hill flat, my heart didn't lift. It didn't have much inspiration--after all, how many calls had I made about good looking flats that had already been let? Many. So I wasn't getting my hopes up. Then, I heard it.

"Yes, it's still available, would you like to arrange a viewing?"

OF COURSE I WANT TO ARRANGE A VIEWING, YOU IGNORANT TWAT!

I didn't say that. But I definitely got a bit flustered and stumbled over the yes yes quite how about that same evening?

Done deal. We were meeting David at the flat.

Then we set up an appointment for another place the next day, Saturday, at 11:30. Whatever.

Took the bus over to Muswell Hill, and more or less found where we were going. Gorgeous. Rows and rows of Victorian houses. It was a bit of a steep hill, but so worth it, because as you reached the top, you could look back and see an amazing view of Victorians and the city beyond. We were early and stood outside, taking in the neighborhood. David showed up and we went in. First thing we were confronted with? A green spiral staircase leading up to the flat's entrance.

Need I say more?

Of course not. We were there for over an hour looking around and chatting with the current tenant and the agent. We got a rave review of the landlord from both and took in the awesomeness of a huge living room lounge and two unequally sized but both very cool bedrooms. The kitchen and bathroom were a bit drab...but who the hell cares. You can shower with your eyes closed, and you can look at the yummy things you're cooking instead of the boring floor.

We were pretty much ready to put a deposit down then and there--Rebecca even told me she had the cash on hand, as did I. However, we wanted to make sure this really was the right choice. Was it close enough to the tube? Was there fun stuff to do nearby as well as further out? So we made plans to call David later that evening. We took a walk to the Highgate tube station to figure out how long it took--a bit of a long walk, 15 minutes--but it felt like good exercise! Plus, we could catch a bus when lazy. And we were on the perfect tube line to plop us down right near school.

But we did have that appointment the following morning at 11:30...we should be thorough, right? especially since the other place was a lot cheaper.

So we made plans to meet David at 12:45 to make an offer--that way, we could see the other place and either go running and screaming to be taken in and saved from a hovel by David, or we could say thanks but no thanks.

Next morning, we met up at the tube and more or less got to the flat we were viewing.

The viewing happened.

(silence)

"So...first impressions?..."

"I don't think we even need to discuss this."

(silence)

So to David we went and handed him 150 quid each while sipping on some black tea with milk--no sugar.

The Great Flat Hunt, Day 2

I have been to Hell, friends...and it is somewhere in a ground floor flat on Blackstock Road in London.

I don't think I can do today's experiences justice, I'm just so tired...exhausted...emotionally drained. A cardboard box is looking fantastic right now, for real. But, that behind said...it's still a good experience. It's horrible and exciting to launch into this, talk to agents, see them blatantly trying to flirt me into a decision, as well as not knowing whether they are being honest or straightforward.

I was asked if I participated in any girls-gone-wild naked escapades.

And I couldn't get in touch with my would-be salsa partner.

I saw 6 places today, after spending the better part of the morning pouring over internet ads and calling agents.

5 places were pretty depressing...student hovels, ex-council places (formerly run by the local gov, somewhat undesirable), odd smells, odd stains...etc.

Just before 6 I stopped off at one more place and was taken to a quaint residential neighborhood, Digsby Crescent. It was lovely, and the flat was a split level ground floor bit in a period house. It wasn't gorgeous, but the architecture was great, there was a bit of green in the back, the bedrooms were a good size, and the living room was spectacular with a 3-piece bay window looking out into the neighborhood. But it was out of our price-range. Even negotiating it down 30 pounds and extending the lease was pushing it, especially since we don't want to get stuck in a lease that was too long. What ensued for the next 2 hours was a manic rush from the flat back to the agency and then back to the house I'm staying to gather information, call the US multiple times, and pour over the details of the deal to see if making an offer was a wise decision. At first it seemed like it was, but then...it was just a bit expensive. And the bathroom was a bit dodgy. And it's big, so heating could get tough since we can't let ourselves freeze...

Terror, panic, blood pressure all on the rise. Do I make an offer, do I not? As the clock was ticking...or rather, once it had stopped ticking but I was making it tick myself (calling after closing time and whatnot), I backed away. I said I'd call in the morning. I almost felt sure this was our place, but it's expensive. It's doable, but expensive. My stomach was still churning but I came into the kitchen to have a medicinal glass of wine and the girls who were home all raised their eyebrows when I told them the situation--price, location, etc. They were optimistic that I could find something nice and a good bit cheaper. They were also positive about the amount of time I had to find said nice and good bit cheaper place.

So...what started out as a frustrating day on the phone quickly turned into a mad dash through a fair part of North East London's less attractive housing options which led to a climax that crumbled from the seismic waves of anxiety tempered with some critical thinking and positive reinforcement.

Tomorrow: hanging out on the couch while going through a few thousand ads online. Perhaps I'll pop in a movie or something.

Michael McIntyre may not be entirely correct...

Michael McIntyre has said that there is nothing more tense in life than using Scottish money in England.

Perhaps that's true if you're British. But if you're American and you find yourself in London, using Scottish money is not really on your radar, especially as you brace yourself, pushing yourself deep into your seat as you are driven around the wrong side of tiny streets by a driver on the wrong side of the car.

They shift with their left hand, for goodness' sake! I can't tell if it's just me being all turned around or if the traffic patterns are actually that much more erratic and odd, weird windy bits in the middle as you cross from one area to another. But yes, today I was driven around twice by British people in their British cars on their British roads. It wasn't particularly scary, it was just...terribly odd. Like reaching for the door handle and missing it because someone has changed it to a knob and you're not quite sure how to get through the door--you understand the mechanics of both a door handle and a knob, and yet once you are forced to switch from one to the other, it just feels very strange. Like wearing underwear that is slightly too small, or something.

Anyway, this all ties in to the Great Flat Search, Day 1. I started off the morning with a letting agency right down the road, saw a smelly little flat, nothing special. I think I can do better. Then I walked down the length of Upper Street in Islington and stopped in, or at least looked at, every letting agency. I returned to one of the agencies for an appointment where I saw one flat, which was very nice...a bit too nice. Everything had been redone! Lovely..but...that means any scratch will be that much more obvious. And white carpets...yikes. No shoes or spilling or anything. Also no furniture, but that could be negotiated, as could the price. I'll call in the morning and see what I can get from the agent, but if it's not right, it's not right. There are cheaper places that look a bit tougher for the wear and tear of daily life, and don't have odd showers that aren't properly blocked off and share the same floor with the rest of the bathroom...

Perhaps, though, if I went salsa dancing with the agent, he'd get me a better price and some nice furniture? I had to tell him that I really was set on finding a place to live before worrying about having fun on the weekend, though. He agreed that that was a worthy first priority, as he turned right from the left-hand lane, perfectly legally.

I have since spent the rest of the afternoon and evening watching My Big Fat Greek Wedding (it was in the DVD player and I couldn't figure out how to get to the regular tv...) and trying to find places online. I've found some..well..thousands, actually. It's not the most manageable system, but I'll make some sort of progress!

One other little bit: a WOW moment. Watching tv (one of the girls left it on), a commercial for finding suppliers for whatever you want to manufacture came on. A white lady in a suit said she needed this product, then an Asian man said he made it. A white man said he needed a product, sweatshirts, I think. An Asian woman followed, saying in a thick accent whilst standing in front of rows of other women sewing "I produced it," or something. Yes, I nearly choked on my pretzel, too. It wasn't until the very end that the manufacturer was some sort of nondescript ethnic man--before that, they were all Asian. So many things that could be said about that, and I'm just so dumbfounded that I can't even think of wear to begin. In one 30 second segment, some company managed to promote cheap sweatshop labor, outsourcing, AND the inspiration of producing a product and being a successful business person.

At least they're being honest about their intentions...?

Update: Filming, Laundry Adventure, and Game Plan of Action

So I didn't mention it before, but all along Stapleton Hall Road, the more-main road where I'm staying off of, are these huge trucks with names relating to lighting and filming. I kept meaning to ask about it but then forgot. However, tonight I learned the truth! Or at least someone's opinion of it: apparently they are indeed filming something cinematic down that street. I heard it was "One Day," a movie coming out with Anne Hathaway. So who knows, you may see me as an extra carrying my groceries in the background!

Also, on Saturday when I was bringing my second piece of luggage over to Finsbury Park, I had an accident. Or rather, my new coat did. It was devastating. The first light-colored coat I have ever owned, and there it was, on the ground. It waited until the very last leg of the journey; literally, on the pathway to the door, right in front of the stairs. It fell off my bag and got rolled over. So now, of course, it is filthy. So I'm trying to wash it and see if that fixes the problem. I had to get a presentation on an English washing machine, though, and then there was a funny exchange that followed where I came back upstairs to verify that I had put the detergent in the right place, which left one girl confused and thinking I had removed the rubber washer that keeps all the water from spilling out. But everything should be fine...I'll find out in about 40 more minutes when I go down to get my things to hang up.

Third in the Title lineup: game plan! I head to Upper Street in Islington tomorrow to visit the many estate agencies that are along it and see what they have. If I get lucky, perhaps I can see some properties and get an idea of what house/apartment/flat hunting is really like. It's all a bit...adultish, you know? How exciting, indeed!

Lasty, Le boyfriend has brought it to my attention that my language is a bit lofty (his word, not mine) and somewhat snobbish (my word, not his). I'm not actually trying to be a snob. In my head it comes off as sort of funny...I think it narrates itself in a British accent. So...hopefully you find it amusing, that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe I can experiment with different styles and see what people respond to best. And just because having heard some of it read back to me, it sort of sounds like I'm a horrible person: I love children. I hope to have some of my own some day. And I know that children get antsy and cannot always sit still, and I'm actually quite forgiving of that. Really.

I swear I'm a nice, polite, moderately well-mannered American.

Wearing boots in August and loving it.

Last night, I experience an ecstasy formerly unkown to me, a pleasure and pure joy I had never felt in my nearly 22 years of existence.

Last night, ladies and gentlemen…I went out wearing boots and a coat. In August.

SHOCKING. I know. To be perfectly honest, I was a bit chilly even with the warmer layers and calf-covering leather footwear. Indeed, I have landed in the wonderful world of the Brits…and I am loving it.

I wore sweatpants to bed last night, too.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. How, you may ask, did I come to arrive in such a cool and brisk heaven? It all starts last Thursday, 12 August. Having gotten slightly behind schedule, as usual, I found myself packing the morning of the day of my flight. I woke up at 7 to the sound of my alarm, but was immediately out of sorts. Where is the daylight? It’s dark! Did I perhaps mistake a phone call for my alarm, and thus mistake the hour as well? Le boyfriend and I had made plans the previous night for him to call me in the morning to be sure I got my narcoleptic ass out of bed. But no, Le boyfriend had not yet rung, it was indeed 7am.

Thunder….BOOOOOM!

Massive thunder storm. Power flickered. And as I saw the lights grow temporarily dimmer, my soul flickered as well. Not today, dearest grid, not today: BE STRONG! I did not want to pack by candle light.

7 hours and much rethinking and repacking later, I was finished. My overweight bag was zipped, my new backpack was clipped closed, at which point I joined my magnanimous patrons in the car to begin the journey to Dulles International Airport. I said a sad farewell to Violet, fearing the judgment and scorn in her brown eyes—but she did let me rub her belly so perhaps there aren’t too many hard feelings.

More rain on the way to Dulles. It was a sign. What sort of sign, you might ask. A very wet and inconvenient one, that sort. And a sign of what, exactly, you might proceed to ask? And I would answer solemnly: that my flight would be delayed.

Which it was. After saying farewell to my honorable patrons as splashes of water mixed with the salty tears on my cheeks, I dragged my overweight bag inside and went up to the Virgin Atlantic desk. I handed the lady at the desk my passport and e-ticket, and then proceeded to use a cantilever crane to lift my bag onto the scale. The lady raised her eyebrows and hesitantly said “You know, ma’am, your bag is overweight.” I may have burst a blood vessel trying not to laugh. Of course, my dear lady, I know my bag is overweight. I am a measly 5’3”, do you think I can easily lift a 3-4ft tall bag that weight somewhere in the area of 65 pounds? I was well aware that my bag was overweight and told the lady so, at which point I was directed to another counter to pay the fee and get my boarding pass.

To the gate I went, stopping at the restroom along the way. I even took a picture of it. I mean, I don’t feel as though it’s entirely necessary to tell you just at which point I made my way to the restroom, but I’m pretty sure you’ve guessed that I went to one rather quickly—as I generally do—so I just thought I’d affirm your very correct assumption.

Sitting at the gate was relaxing, I spoke a bit to another lady on the flight, spoke with various friends and loved ones, including Le boyfriend who took the time and the joking remarks from his coworkers to wish me well on my flight. Really quite nice. I also watched an adorable 3-year-old boy run around making noise throughout the gate. We made eye contact a few times, at which point another whooping “WAAAAAAWAAWA” or “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” or something of that nature was uttered. Had it been any other child, I imagine a headache would have instantly installed itself in my temples and any urge to procreate would have been crushed by my desire for peace and quiet. But no, he was far too adorable. Really a quite energetic kid. A much younger child, named Owen, was crawling over the gate. Poor fellow, his parents kept setting him down and walking far away so he’s have to crawl back. I imagine he got pretty tired—which was precisely his parents’ cunning plot to keep him quiet on the plane, for which I am immensely grateful. For you see, friends, I was to find myself quite close to Owen, the loud little boy, and many other children in fact.

My seat was changed, as I had noticed earlier that day when I printed my boarding pass, but after assuring that it was still an aisle seat, I believed everything was all right. Wrong. I was moved to penultimate row of the plane, surrounded on all sides by children and their accompanying adults. I’ll admit my spirits were shaken, and as I vaulted my backpack into the overhead locker (not a compartment, mind you, but a locker), I hopes against hope that this would not be the flight from hell that it was rapidly coming to resemble. As I sat down, I went to shove my bag under the seat in front of me, and was hit with another disheartening realization: in addition to being surrounded by various minors, I was also sharing my foot and bag space with a large metal object of some kind secured onto the floor. I had less than half the normal amount of foot room for an Economy seat, which we all know is already not much. In any case, I was able to arrange the things in my bag to fit in the small section, and I spent the rest of my flight moving my feet about, trying to sneak some space from the lady next to me when she wasn’t using it.

I’ll tell you now, the flight really wasn’t that bad. The children were, for the most part, quite well-behaved. The little boy behind me kicked my seat a few times in the beginning, but I think I turned around enough times that his mother, who was sitting next to me, got the hint and gave him the proper incentive to stop. The loud little boy from the gate was in the row next to me. If he had been a less fortunate looking child, I would have perhaps been a bit less tolerant of his cooing, but it really wasn’t that bad. And just in case it seems like it, I’m not totally against ugly children. It’s just…when a child (or anyone of any age, for that matter) is misbehaving, it’s bad enough; add being ugly, and it’s just a double offense.

But I digress. Due to the thunder storms we were delayed, which wasn’t so bad except that we were all getting a bit thirsty and hungry. Long story short, though, we got going soon enough and it was a pretty smooth flight. I was very excited, this being my first flight with an individual entertainment center. I watched The Blindside, which, for a sports movie, was actually pretty good. I can see why Sandra Bullock got so many kudos for it. After vainly attempting to sleep for a few hours, I turned on my screen again and watched an episode of Glee. Turns out, I had never seen the pilot! So it was pretty exciting. Very fitting that they should sing a Journey song while I was on a journey of my own. Must have been a sign or something.

Anyway, as there is a lot more to get to, let me fast-forward a bit: landed about an hour late, had to find a different gate, got off, went pee, went to border check and waited in long annoying line, got through border check and couldn’t find my bag since it had long come off the best, found bag, got ticket to Heathrow Express, got to Paddington Station, found hotel nearby, locked up large bag. Phew. Shower needed. Hopped on tube to go down one stop where I knew there was a phone shop, and I got my mobile sorted out—Vodafone pay as you go—not great, but not bad either. Also found out that it would be cheaper to buy a low-end Nokia with a Virgin payg than buying a new charger for my Nokia phone—so I might do that, and get a UK charger AND another unlocked phone just in case. But that’s for later.

After wandering around for a bit and having no luck getting in touch with Jack, Sister the Elder’s beloved, for reasons that…aren’t worth discussing, but suffice it to say some people aren’t great at finding other people in small buildings…I sat around in Paddington for a bit, dozing off in a chair and then freaking out when the pigeons flew down right next to me, waking me up. They also really deformed feet...like...peg legs, and weird toes. Very strange. Later, I went back to the hotel, crashed on the couch, and then finally checked in a bit before 2. Since I had no where else to go and I was desperately trying to stay awake, I decided to expose myself to some British culture. So I watched daytime TV in a semi-conscious state. Went out later to try and find some food, not having eaten since dinner on the plane, but I couldn’t decide where to go—it’s hard eating alone in a new place! I didn’t want to be that weirdo eating alone in a pub or something, and I didn’t know what sort of take away (not take out) that I wanted. So I got a yogurt.

Then, I went on an adventure. A luggage-lugging adventure. Having made arrangements with Mine Host in Finsbury Park to drop off my luggage that night (this is Friday night, by now), I got my things together and dragged my bag back to Paddington. Wasn’t too fun having to switch lines—lots of stairs involved, and not many people willing to help. That’s something I was slightly surprised at. In DC, and even in New York, at least in my experience, you can generally find someone who will help you up the stairs or something. But here…not really. I got lucky, though, and got some help—from women though. It wasn’t until Saturday that a man actually helped me—though that was only to pull the bag up the 5 remaining steps. Um, thanks. Anyway, got to Mine Host’s establishment, dropped off my bag and chatted for a bit. It was nice!

Took the tube back, was starving, grabbed a pizza at the first open place. Then, walking back, I remembered I needed to go to a convenience store to get toothpaste, which I had forgotten. When I walked in, though, I was immediately confronted with a huge section of cold beers. In my weakened physical and mental state from not having eaten nor slept, I forgot all about the toothpaste, and bought a Stella. As I played it on the counter and got out my money, I asked the cashier if he happened to have a bottle opener since I didn’t have one in my room. He did, and, hesitating slightly, opened the bottle for me, then placed the bottle in a bag. I grabbed it by the neck, careful not to spill, and walked back to my room with an open bottle of beer and a pizza. As I walked out of the store, the man asked me if I was American…

The next day, Saturday, I woke up and readied myself to check out of the hotel before 11. I made my way to Tottenham Court Road to find Jack, the Beloved, and my other suitcase in his possession. We met up and immediately went in search of sustenance, as neither of us had eaten that morning, nor much the day before. We had a bit of trouble. Finally, we found a small Mediterranean place and had falafel sandwiches. Back at the hotel, we hung out for bit then went for a walk around town. Got to see some of the area around where I’ll be going to school, it was very pretty and really nice out—low 60s, brisk. We passed by some University College of London (UCL) buildings, and I have only one thing to say:

Suck it, Harvard.

I then headed over to Mine Host’s establishment again to drop off my second bag and meet the housemates. We had a fun time chatting, though there were times when certain things were temporarily lost in translation:

[as Alice picks up a white styrofoamy chip]

“Is that a shrimp chip???!” I asked, excited, as I have not had shrimp chips in a very long time.

“What?” was Alice, Sarah, and Steve’s reply, “What did you call it?”
“A shrimp chip?”

[excessive laughter]

Then something along the lines of “that’s brilliant! We call them prawn crackers!” Sarah, Mine Host, was particularly smitten with my American term, and continued to call them shrimp chips for the rest of the day.

I then met some of the other housemates, and I fear I gave them a pretty horrible view of the USA. They were horrified to hear about our health care system of insurance, sick days, our pittance of vacation time, and how other coworkers are asked to donate their own days off to help an ailing coworker. They were horrified. I felt sort of bad. But hey, I guess they appreciate their nationalized healthcare that much more, now! We also had an interesting discussing about moving to Europe in order to take advantage of benefits, such as healthcare. I mentioned that Le boyfriend is French, at which point Alice emphatically urged me to stay with him, and Maryanne (sp? French girl of the house, who doesn’t want any other foreigners, especially not another French person, to move in) explained that he can work anywhere in the EU, including the UK (thus solving the problem of me not speaking French) and that I could follow as a spouse with a special visa, and after a certain amount of time become a national. All in all, it was a very informative conversation on both ends!

Then some of the girls made their way to get ready to go out and I busied myself preparing to out and meet Jack at a pub to have some drink and get dinner. I made the mistake of communicating with Alice, as we both did our hair in the mirror, that Le boyfriend had mentioned earlier while online (we were video chatting while I was sitting with the group, learning about tiny adorable pigs and becoming a national) that I looked British—I was drinking tea and I had frizzy hair. At which point there was a slight pause and I hurriedly added that Alice’s hair looked quite nice, not frizzy at all—it was nicely straightened, actually. Oops.

Having dodged a potentially offensive situation (or perhaps it was and she just swept it away), I went out to meet Jack, though I walked right by him and went up to his room, where he clearly wasn’t, since he was at the pub downstairs. That being sorted out, I joined him and three others, one of whom works at SIA, his flatmate, and a mutual friend. We had a good time talking about black runners’ large penises, buying people for $200 in Uzbekistan, and Matthew’s little Japanese girlfriend who was very cross at him for drinking so much. Once they all left, Jack and I headed down to find some food, ending up at a really horrible place, that I think we knew was going to be horrible but for some reason went into anyway. We had actually passed a Chipotle but for some reason passed it up--I KNOW, idiot decision. We were both under the influence—just goes to show it really does impair your judgment. We got some nasty burgers and fries, then went to a pub across the street (where we should have eaten) and got some more drinks to wash it down with. We had a nice chat, nice little bonding experience sans Sister the Elder. It was the first time I had been introduced as a future sister-in-law, made me feel quite mature and all that. Good night!

I ended up back in Finsbury Park a bit after midnight, hoping to find Le boyfriend online to chat with for a bit. Alas, he had missed the earlier train, though, and was stuck in the city. I managed to find this out through the text function with Google Voice—really quite a useful toy. In any case, we did manage to chat for a bit, and then he admonished me strongly to go to sleep, which I grudgingly did. I was in need of a shower after having dragged a suitcase all over the tube again earlier that day, but I was quite tired, I didn’t want to chance waking anyone up, and I didn’t have a towel.

Today, Sunday, has been moderately productive! I’ve written this epic blog entry, learned some really useful information about housing from various housemates—I now have a bubble drawn on the tube map that I should stay within, and the name of a good estate agent that should have good properties for reasonable budgets. I also got to see Le boyfriend un peu as he washed dishes and I wrote this entry. Tres bon!

Have visa, will travel...and a state ID helps too.

So this is way after the fact, but I got my visa. If you look around you carefully you can see confetti, balloon shards, and other refuse left behind from the parade in my honor. Sorry I didn't take pictures, it was just all so wonderful and ecstatic.

Anyone who was talking with me the entire month of July knows how horrible the visa application process was. I was constantly checking various websites, calling automated systems that had no information and then trying to get said information from real people who would then refer me back to their automated accomplices in the destruction of my soul.

But I triumphed over the red tape, or whatever color it is in the UK, and on 7 July, 2010, a day which will live on in the annals of minuscule victories of the masses over the powers that be at the UK Border Agency, I received my visa. It was pasted ever so delicately in the pages of my passport, though the text is ever so slightly shifted so that labels and their information are not aligned properly.

So for a short while, I was feeling rather dandy, if I do say so myself. I had triumphed, I was a visa application pro. I helped at least three other girls with their applications, I answered their emails thoroughly and magnanimously, delighting in my ability to help them ::cue "Poor Unfortunate Souls"::

But then.

Disaster struck.

And by disaster, yes, I mean heaving to go to the MVA (the same thing as the DMV for everyone not in weird states like Maryland). How astute of you to perceive that.

At least with the visa I could be frustrated in the comfort of my own home, with the good kind of toilet paper.

In any case, Mom and I had done our research...or so we thought. It was a perfectly normal Saturday morning on 24 July when we went to the MVA, one big happy family, though sadly without Sister the Elder. Papa needed to renew his license and I needed to get my state ID since my permit will expire next year and it has that obnoxious red box around my face that says "YOU ARE NOT 21 YOU CANNOT DRINK OR HAVE A LIFE, MEASLY PEON AND SCUM OF THE EARTH JUDGED SOLELY BY YOUR AGE." Now is NOT the time to make some snide comment about my lack of a driver's license. Shut up.

But I digress. Anyway, we got our tickets. We waited. For over two hours. My number finally gets called, "VICTORY IS MINE!" I say to myself, oh foolish child that I am. After all, I was in the MVA where time is forever lost and souls are dulled by the automated number counter. I got up to the counter and handed the lady my materials, as they were all in order and ready to go. BUT NO! She said, much less dramatically, the law had changed! And she pointed to a bland piece of paper taped to the divider next to her. The new law stated that over-the-counter IDs could only be given to adults under certain circumstances.

Please consider, for a moment, that minors (ie, people who don't REALLY need IDs) can get an over-the-counter ID no matter what. But an adult has to wait to get his/hers in the mail. Um...

What?

Anyway, one of the ways to get an over-the-counter ID is if you are traveling in less than 20 days, which I was. But I needed to have a printed itinerary, which I did not. In a last-ditch attempt to change my fate, I asked the lady if I could simply pull up my itinerary on her screen.

I need not say what her answer was. Instead, I will continue the story, which brings us to the following Tuesday, 27 July. My dearest mother took the day off work to drive me around to my various doctors' appointments and, yes, to deal with this ID crisis. Anyone familiar with current events would know that the previous Sunday there was a huge storm, knocking out much of the power in Montgomery County and surrounding environs. Our house still didn't have power. And neither did the MVA Express where I was hoping to get my ID.

So guess where I went next? Back to the Depths of Hell, from which Dante was mercifully spared. Another few hours went by and I got my ID. I know, anti-climactic, right? My picture is nice, my digitally-collected signature is ugly...but that's about it. It'll go nicely with my passport with the visa and ISIC card from UNESCO.

I am officially identifiable.

I swear they are my parents, and no, I am not stealing their money.

Does is bother anyone that you have to have your parents write a letter to foreign governments affirming that they are, indeed, your parents? I realize there are all sorts of reasons why this is necessary, but it does seem a tad absurd. Not only did my mother go through nine months of waddling through pregnancy and however long in labor (well, actually, my mom's labor wasn't all that bad--I was quick. But still. Birth is tough) but now she's got to sign a letter affirming that she did, indeed, supply half of my genetic code and was, for the first 18 years of my life my legal guardian. And now, though legally not responsible for me, she and my father are...well...financially responsible.

May I present the honorable Father and Mother, my worthy patrons!

They are, after all, funding my gallivanting.

And they have to write a letter proving that, too. They give me permission to use their funds! How nice is that. Now hopefully the UK government will believe me. I swear I have money to pay for rent and classes! Really I do. Er, well, my parents do...and see this lovely letter they sent saying that I can use it!

In other words: I begin my visa application this weekend. I am afraid. Very afraid. Let me tell you: I met with Allison, an Art Business student, and she is also struggling with the visa process. We compared websites--and we have not been looking at the same ones. Does it bother anyone that there are this many websites--all from the government--offering information about one thing? It seems that technology has, once again, made life slightly more difficult. I'd much prefer to make a few trips into DC to ascertain what I need to present, then return to present it, then return to accept my visa. But no.

US citizens MUST submit their visa applications online. NO REAL PERSON TO TALK TO FOR YOU, DAMN REBELS! Serves us right for making a big stink back in 1775. Those Brits really know how to hold a grudge.

But I don't! I love the British and am very excited to join them on the island. In fact, in addition to visa preparations I have also been devoting much thought, energy, prayer, and time on my butt in front of the computer investigating housing options with other girls in the program. There are many options, and most of them are quite expensive. Papa got excited about the Goodenough Club, a graduate/post-graduate student residence hall that is very close to school and VERY swanky. I was not as excited about living in a dorm-like facility, wanting to grow up and learn how to pay rent and the like. Argument ensued. The idea grew on me until....I found out that a) there is a meal plan rather than kitchen facilities and b) you have to join clubs.

I don't think I need to explain my horror at the prospect of another year and half on meal plan, especially to anyone who experienced the Ratty. Yes it is convenient. But. And that But is a big one. And as for clubs--I'm as much of a joiner as anyone. But I want to join in with my Institute. I'm all for international community, getting involved, and whatnot. But I'm going to be working hard enough at SIA, I don't need to worry about getting my brownie points when I come home.

So Goodenough is not actually good enough for me. There are other student residences that are much more reasonable, and I am investigating some. But the idea of a flat or a room in a house is also attractive and, frankly, preferable. The challenge is finding the right one at the right price with the right things in it (preferably furniture). Now of course, if something seems too good to be true, it probably is...

But I'm investigating a great-sounding offer anyway. Allison is going to London and hopefully will be able to check the place out. Then we'll see. In any case, we're investigating all sorts of properties and enlisting the help of a family-friend/letting agent. So our hopes are high! We should be able to find something. If not, I'll let you know what cross street my cardboard box is on.

I feel like an immigrant...oh wait.

So I need a sponsor. Will you please tell the UK government that I am a legitimate student, a nice person, and a good listener? The last bit might help.

I have applied for my tier 4 student visa sponsorship! Hopefully the Institute will grant it to me (I mean, they will...unless they have a sick sense of humor). Then I may begin the application process for a tier 4 adult student visa so that I may traverse the trails of the EU and the location of my study trip (?!) legally and without problems should I come to a border.

Hopefully this time, when going through customs, my official and awesome-looking visa will encourage the person checking my passport NOT to play a joke on me, claiming that I am submitting a passport that is not my own. Oh wait, that only happens in the US.

In the meantime, I still need to figure out where I'm living, and with whom. And how to do that while a few thousand miles away. Hmm...