All the World's a Stage

Aphra

2008-05-08T16:54:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, having resolved to make some last minutes trips to tourist attractions before I go home and kick myself for having overlooked some very obvious things, I went to Westminster Abby. While it was really cool to see the tomb of Queen Elizabeth I, who wrote some great poetry if you have any desire to read it, my favorite spot in the Abby was not nearly as opulent as that occupied by the Virgin Queen.

Around the corner from the Poet's Corner, and outside in the courtyard, there lies a flat and faded marble slab laid into the ground. Nothing about it boasts of importance. There is no figure carved from stone to stand above it and demand attention from all passersby. It is just smooth and plain. But the words carved into it couldn't be more perfect.

It was specifically to see this spot that I had ventured into the Abby. The stone read:

Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be

Defense enough against Mortality.

Behind these most fitting words lies the Wit of Aphra Behn.

Mrs. APHRA BEHN

DYED APRIL 16

A.D. 1680

Aphra Behn, as you may have already guessed, unless you have heard of her before now, was a writer during what is called the Restoration period of British Literature. This era was, for the most part, filled with the words of Pope and Dryden and Swift (Read: crusty old white men who were very angry about a lot of things, and loved to complain about the endless shortcomings of women). And then there was Aphra Behn.

Behn is a figure whose personal life is shrouded in mystery. Nothing is known for certain about her birth or the identity of her parents or the man that made her a Mrs., but what is known is rather fascinating. She traveled, for instance, to the New World, the West Indies, and lived there for a time, later writing about her experiences in a pseudo-documentary way in a novella called Oroonoko; she also worked as a spy in Holland for the British government, using her feminine wit and charm to get information out of, who else?, men; and lastly, and most importantly, she is recognized as being one of the first and most prolific female writers and playwrights of her era who supported herself by way of her writing. She wrote for her bread.

In her novel, A Room of One's Own, Virgina Woolf wrote that every woman should "let flowers fall on the tomb of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds." I just finished a paper on one of Behn's plays for my class on the Restoration. It's called The Rover, and it had me laughing out loud. So, needless to say, though to say it makes me sound like a pretty huge dork, I was SO EXCITED to see this unassuming spot in Westminster Abby. I mean, it was kind of like seeing a celebrity on the street or something. That doesn't really make any sense, but just to know that I was, in a sense, in the presence of this woman was a really cool sort of thing.

I sat down on a bench for a minute, just to look at the black faded stone, just to think. And then a pigeon walked across her grave, her tomb, whatever you want to call it. A pigeon walked across Aphra Behn. Then feet shuffled over her--feet belonging to a tour group that was completely oblivious to what they were walking on top of, of who they were looking over. And then came a stroller.

I thought the contrast between my attitude of "hero-worship" and everyone else's nonchalance was pretty hilarious. And it made me think about the idea of legacy.

When I was in Paris the first time, Claire, Syd and I went to find Jim Morrison's grave. He's burried at this cemetery on the outskirts of Paris, and Syd basically came to Paris so that she could "see Jimmy."

We found the site after a bit of hiking around. It was barricaded with the sort of gate one might find lining a red carpet to separate the stars from photogs and screaming fans. His headstone was strewn with wilting flowers, candles, and other sundry items left my many an adoring fan. The tomb to the left of his was covered in messages from his fans who found it permissible to deface a stranger's tomb in order to leave Jimmy a message.

Meanwhile, in London, pigeons and strollers and tour groups are passing over the resting place of English Literature's first professional woman writer.

But this might be preferable to a tacky barricade.

3 Years Down

2008-05-08T16:22:00.000-07:00

4 papers and 36 pages later, I am done with my Junior year of college.

How the heck am I done with my 3rd year of college? I mean, I still remember moving into my freshman dorm like like it was yesterday.

I had just gotten back from Outdoor Orientation-- the Scripps Pre-Orientation program, where I had scaled some pretty scary hillsides with a pretty ancient backpack from my dad's former days as a mountain man in the 70s.

I had just spent my last night sleeping in my own bed before moving into a dorm where I would have to live with other people and endure Esha turning on the lights in the room at 4AM just as I was falling asleep because she had just finished studying for Bio and was having trouble finding her pajamas or something.

I had just had the most amazing shower of my life after not having shaved or soaped-up for a week. My feet and ankles were bruised and adorned with some pretty nasty cuts where the duct tape I had used to wrap my ankles (in order to prevent blisters) had dug into my skin.

And now I was saying goodbye to my parents and embarking on the scary new task of making new friends for the first time in 6 years.

And it was scary. I'm loud as hell once you get to know me, but when I'm put into a situation where I am unknown, I tend to be quiet and shy. So making friends was scary.

It happened soon enough. MaryAlison and Esha and I got to be fast friends, despite the occasional urge to kill one another. And I met Lauren and Claire either in Spanish Class or through voice, where each of our wise little first-year butts were hired to oversee our own sections of the newspaper. (Because, yes. We were just THAT good.)

I remember one of our Editor-in-Chiefs asking Lauren and I if we were sisters because we apparently looked alike. (Because, obviously, every girl on the planet with masses of brown curly hair is related.)

Oh, man-- I must tell you. My hair has lost the curly. I don't know what to do. I mean, I remember reading someplace that a woman's hair changes texture something like 7 times over the course of her lifetime, but, HELLO? Um, no one ever asked me if I wanted the curls to go away. And I mean, my hair is still wavy, but I can't help but wonder if this is some sort of punishment from the curly hair gods for chopping all of it off. But it was heavy, and I really wanted a change. It's not like I ever straighten it, I mean... Come on! Maybe when I get back to the humid Southern California summer, the curls will spring back up... I hope?

Anyway, back when I had curly hair, I also got to be friends with Claire. Another curly. Claire at the time was a walking Petri dish. She was sick. And I don't know how it came up, but she told me that she felt like her throat was going to implode or something, so I took her over some Throat Coat tea and a microwavable can of Chicken Noodle Soup in hope that it would make her feel better because I wanted us to be friends and I thought it would be kind of awkward to be friends with a person who didn't have a neck. Best to avoid that.

From there, Claire, Lauren and I had Spanish study session pow wows and embarked on a grand tour of the Scripps English Department.

Anyway, by the end of freshman year, I had friends. I had a place. I knew where I was going and I was excited about it.

Three years later--still unsure of how time has passed so quickly--I receive an e-mail from the professor in charge of the English Senior Seminar to tell us that we need to start thinking about our thesis topics, because we need to know them for our first class in the Fall.

Shit.

I'm really going to have to grow up now. But first, I'm going to have to write a thesis. And I have NO CLUE what I'm going to write mine about...

What better to do?

2008-05-01T17:10:00.000-07:00

It's 1AM, so what better to do than update the good old blog?

My four "almost papers" have somehow worked themselves into two full drafts and two "almost papers." Woot!

Here are some updates on the things that I do to fill up the unseemly blank spaces in my planner:

Summer Job-- I have a summer internship! And I am SO excited. I will be working as the Development and Literary intern for Circle X Theatre Company in Los Angeles.

Scripps Newspaper-- In addition, I have just been offered the position of Co-Editor-in-Chief for the Scripps College Newspaper. Another Editor-in-Chief notch to add to belt! I'm really excited. I know this job will be incredibly challenging, but it's my last year at Scripps so I have to make it count! My friend Lauren will be the other half of what will be our dynamic duo, and she's completely amazing and I am so excited to be working with her on this!

In other news, I bought a little dress today. I've decided to call it my "Traditional English Dress" because it's just about as "London" as a dress can get. It's black jersey to the waist and then it explodes into a full skirt made of a calico floral print of flowers and strawberries. It has an asymmetrical hemline and a black ribbon that ties into a bow at the waist. And yes, it's just as ridiculous as it sounds and I love it.

That being said, today was my last trip to TopShop this time around. (I say this time around because I, of course, plan on coming back to London.) The place was a madhouse and my personal space was invaded by many an eager shopper with a bad dye job and an addiction to black eyeliner and facial piercings. Even if I weren't leaving in 10 days (!!!!) it would take me a while to build up the strength to venture back in there. Also, the shoe temptation is just too much to handle. (When I get home my father might actually be glad to hear that I want to go to Nordstrom after having to look at four months worth of credit card statements full of ugly sums that take full advantage of the crap exchange rate from £s to $s.)

My agenda for tomorrow includes finishing my Shakespeare paper and taking in a matinee showing of Spamalot with Jessica.

I cannot wait to be done with these papers. Working on 4 at a time is an ugly business, let me tell you. But I really love what I'm writing on for all of them, so at least that's a plus.

Weekend Update

2008-04-26T06:24:00.000-07:00

I found my engagement ring at Portobello Market today. So if anyone is looking to propose anytime soon, your first step is to head over to Notting Hill. The second is introducing yourself.

Portobello Road turns into an antique market on Saturday and Sundays. (Grandma, if you could see this place you would be standing in a puddle of your own drool! It is SO cool!) Today I headed over to price some antique tea cups and saucers and found myself at a stand with some shiny things. I fell in love with an antique ring from the 1930s. Platinum setting, many tiny little diamonds. I can't really explain the shape of the setting but it was intricate and gorgeous, sort of rectangular overall, and flat so it laid close to my finger. I think when the dealer saw my ring she thought that I was a serious costumer, so she had me try it on. Of course, it fit perfectly. And she told me it was a steal at only £400.

Hahaha. Fat chance.

I eventually found the Mecca of all antique china and saw many many gorgeous things. I have to figure out if I will actually be able to transport anything else home before I buy anything, but a lot of it was very reasonably priced. But there was also a lot of things that were damn expensive. There was this British couple from the north of England haggling with the dealer about a set of very snazzy plates. A set of six cost as much as the aforementioned ring. They were willing to pay in cash. This is where the serious antique junkies come to get there fix, apparently.

I know I haven't written in a while. I've been very absorbed in my life here. I'm trying to get as much of London seared into my memory as possible during these last few weeks. I will be home in 17 days! Which is both exciting (because I miss you all!) and sad (because I will miss London!).

Auntie Rita asked which European city has been my favorite. I think the answer is London. I mean, I have had an amazing time going to Edinburgh, Paris, and all over Spain and to Florence, but I feel like all I did when I was in these places was race through the cities and see the sights and figure out a new metro and bus system. There were also language barriers to contend with that always made a complete comprehension of a place--or at least the sort of comprehension that is accessible in a span of a few days--impossible.

I have had more time in London, time to tour castles and things, but also time to establish favorite ways of walking down to the Thames, and moments of discovery in Covent Garden, and even the quite hilarious experience of getting stuck in an elevator in the Underground--it only lasted a few seconds, but the lack of reaction from the people around me compared to the full-blown freak out that was happening in my own mind is quite comic in retrospect. I have had amazing nights dancing myself into exhaustion and nightclubs and trying new types of beer at pubs and gorging myself with delicious Indian food. London is not always as pretty as Paris (although looking out over the Thames at Big Ben and Parliament at night gives the Seine and Notre Dame a serious run for their money), and it's much colder than Spain, and buying a leather bag like the one I bought in Florence is just not an option; but, London is this exhilarating mix of crazies and the comedically drab and plaid; people are reserved but caring, the nightlife is both relaxed and manic, and there are countless things to do and see and taste. Walking down Oxford street in the evening is entertaining just in itself. And this city is so amazingly diverse that you can walk for three blocks without overhearing a conversation in English. The city is efficient, and public transportation is incredibly reliable. You see the occasional bum on the corner, but no one harasses you for money (which is good because I don't have any).

Also, the weather has decided to get beautiful! I haven't had to wear a coat for three days! (Although, I did get caught in a hale storm while out running on Wednesday... But I was in Regent's park which is absolutely lovely, so I really didn't mind.)

Anyway, I will be home soon. I'm looking forward to catching up with the family and spending time with my friends during their last week of school. I also found out yesterday that I got an internship for the summer working at Circle X Theatre Company in LA, and I am SO EXCITED! The program should last about 10 weeks, which means that I should be able to make the Yosemite trip in July! And I really want to go, so I'm really hoping that it all works out. The sun and many open arms await my return to California. Just four final papers and an 11 hour plane ride stand in my way. I think I might try to knock myself out with some wine on the way back. I cried a considerable amount on the plane ride to London. I wonder how the flight leaving London will compare.

The Italy pictures are up!

2008-04-22T14:34:00.000-07:00

Go to shutterfly.com to see my pictures from my trip to Florence!

Paris and Paris Pictures

2008-04-11T09:28:00.000-07:00

I'm back from Paris, and this trip totally made up for the disaster that was my first visit to this magical city of lights.

I've posted the pictures on the site listed below.

Enjoy!

Some pictures, perhaps?

2008-04-07T13:05:00.000-07:00

So, I'm setting off for my second trip to Paris in about 5 hours, but I wanted to post a link to a website where I was able to upload some of my pictures from my trip to Spain.

To look at the pictures go to

www.shutterfly.com

my username is: nguillen@scrippscollege.edu

my password is: pictures

this website is only being used to share my photos with all of you, so don't worry about me giving out my password or anything. I don't use this password for anything else, so it's not a big deal.

just type in the username and the password and you should be able to look at an album called "Spain!" I have only uploaded my pictures from Barcelona so far, but I'll be adding to these once I get back from Paris.

(For any of you pranksters out there, i.e. Travis Nelson, if you decide that you're going to be funny and post anything gross on the shutterfly website, please remember that this is something my grandmother might be looking at...and I will totally know that it was you who did it!)

I will also be writing about my trip to Spain when I get back, so stay tuned.

I'll be in Paris until the 10th, this coming Thursday. I'm hoping that this trip will be a bit better than the first one. Cross your fingers for me!

I love you all!

xoxo,

Coco/ Daught/ Big Sis/ Coquinga/ Muffie/ Nic

Today

2008-03-24T14:38:00.001-07:00

6:30 AM: Wake up. Wonder why the heck your body thought it was time to wake up and go back to sleep. Ignore the freezing draft blowing through your window. Dream of swimming in the ocean and then sitting on the warm sand when you're still wet so that sand sticks to your legs. Rinse in the ocean and repeat.

9:14 AM: Wake up again. Look out window. Is that snow? Surly not...but, is that SNOW!!? This puts a damper on your plans to hit up H&M for a sun dress that will give you the strength to endure the cold in hope that spring will eventually come, or at least, that you'll feel the California sun in 7 weeks time.

10 AMish: Take shower. Shave legs with new goose-bump resistant shaving cream. This is pampering. This is luxury.

10:42 AM: Post-shower body lotion, facial moisturizer ritual, to alleviate the effects of cold air on sensitive skin. Pull on three layers, including pink pom-pom beanie, wool scarf, and industrial strength wool coat to fend off the strange frozen water that has decided to start falling from the sky again. What the heck is that? Does one use an umbrella in the snow? Can you walk in it? What do you do? Exit safety of warm building to go to Starbucks for a cinnamon roll. So far so good. The snow isn't making you to melt.

11:20 AM: Find seat at Starbucks. Read "The Geranium," Flannery O'Conner's first short story. Feel sad as you always do after reading one of her short stories. (Why are you writing a paper on her again? Oh, that's right. Because she's freakin' awesome.) Finish cinnamon roll and leave when no longer able to tolerate annoying British girl and adorable Australian boyfriend who are sitting next to you and yakking non-stop. Well, at least, she yaks while he looks at her with a blank stare, and grunts on occasion.

11:43 AM: Head to H&M to erase memory of stupid girl and boyfriend who had just taken a mini vacation to NYC. Hearing about the trip reminds you of the stinky rain in NYC last summer. Now you miss the stinky rain in NYC. Proceed to H&M.

12:00 PM: Arrive at H&M. Head upstairs.

2:34 PM: Leave H&M after deliberating over purchases for over two hours. Emerge with two new dresses and new sweater. One dress is for Spain. Mini Dress. Black with multi-colored floral pattern. Shorter than you're used to wearing but walking all over the city has done your legs some good over the past 3 months. Second dress: Long, paisley, off white. Halter. You plan to wear it to a backyard BBQ. In May, or June. It will look cute with bangles and brown leather sandals. It makes you want to roll in the grass and then do the tango. You also buy a sweater with an off-center row of buttons and cowl neck. It's speckled grey. You love it. You have completely forgotten about the smell of stinky rain in NYC. And thanks to the mirrors in the H&M dressing room, you finally know what the back of your hair looks like, and you love the cut more now that you did initially.

2:58 PM: Arrive back home. Laugh when you get into your room, look out the window and see that it has started to snow again. You return Meredith's copy of "Knocked Up." She's leaving to go see her dad who is in town for the week. This means you are completely alone on your floor until she comes back. You consider dancing in the hallway in your underwear. To Dolly Parton. Then you reconsider. What if she brings her dad back to the dorm to show him her room? Best to steer clear of this possible encounter.

3:00 PM: Watch "How I Met Your Mother" for a while. Laugh out loud. During this next span of time you talk to friends online, figure our your class schedule for next semester, send some e-mails, and paint toe nails "Pirate" red. (AKA Chanel no. 08.) Continue to watch HIMYM, paint second coat onto toe nails. You're really good at painting your nails. Your mom taught you well.

Around 5PMish?: You decide you need to eat something green, so you gear up to go outside again in order to go to the market. Now the sun is out and is shining into your room to taunt you. It looks warm outside, but you know it's not. Still, in order to prevent ruining your freshly painted nails by smudging them with socks, you opt for flip flops and hope your body forgives you for venturing out in 40 degrees with toes fully exposed to the elements. You get to Tesco. You buy zucchini, a bottle of water, Ritz crackers and a "Yorkie" chocolate bar.

Evening Time: You eat chocolate bar while making a gourmet dinner of Zucchini and Chicken flavored Ramen. You love Ramen. It is delicious. You talk to your dad on Skype to discuss your upcoming travels. You talk to your mom on Skype and model your new purchases. She likes them. She also asks you if the second dress is a bridesmaid dress. You tell her that she is mean, but you think that she's hilarious, as always. You talk Modern Literature with a fellow English major on AIM, you remember how much you love Heart of Darkness. You break open your box of Ritz crackers and decide to write for a bit in the blog.

Later: You might watch more HIMYM, or repack for Spain for the 4th time, or start reading Female Chauvinist Pigs. The night is yours (so long as you stay inside and near your radiator).

Paris

2008-03-23T15:05:00.000-07:00

My friend Tabitha, who is studying abroad in Paris, took me to the top of a nine-story department store for a little-known Parisian view. This is Tabitha looking out over the city.

The is Notre Dame on the Seine at night. The lighting was really magical.

More "night Seine"

Sydney looking up at Notre Dame.

The Eiffel Tower.

Me, twirling at the Eiffel Tower.

This was one of those moments when we were so cold and miserable that we just started to crack up.

Claire and the Seine.

Syd, minus her tissue, in a rare moment of glee.

Well, my Paris trip was interesting.

The city did not disappoint in terms of beauty, but the weather was terrible.

(While some of the pictures I posted exhibit blue skies, do not be deceived. We had 40 degree mach 10 winds that blew the dry skin off of our freezing faces. And rain. And hail. Claire and Syd are both from the desert. They don't do cold. I don't do wind. I hate wind.)

In addition to the tempest that we had to endure on the banks of the Seine, there was also sickness to deal with. Prior to our arrival I had the fortune to contract some sort of stomach virus. Claire and Syd caught runny noses, runny eyes, throbbing sinuses, and throaty coughs from leprechauns on St. Patrick's Day in Dublin. Between the three of us, we were a pretty pathetic bunch.

Nevertheless, I managed to take 170 pictures in Paris. I had to post them smaller than usual, but hopefully this will give you a taste of what I saw. Sickness and weather aside, it was REALLY beautiful.

Some Pictures

2008-03-17T14:56:00.001-07:00

Today I went on a walk around Notting Hill and Portobello Road. Later, some friends and I went down to Covent Garden.

Portebello Road turns into a massive street market on the weekends. People walk shoulder to shoulder down the road while people who live in the area try to plow people down when they decided to try to drive down the street.

Teapots!

I loved this garden.

This is Portobello Road in Notting Hill

Me, Jessica, and Ilona in Covent Garden

Thanks!

2008-03-17T14:54:00.000-07:00

Hi Nana! I got your card in the mail today! Thank you so much. I'll be sure to take a ton of pictures of my travels for you! I love you! --Coco

A Little Protest in Trafalgar Square

2008-03-16T01:05:00.000-07:00

Friday night we came across this amazing little Italian restaurant just down the street from our building. Our waiter, a charming jokester of a man, asked us who we were voting for in the upcoming election. When I asked him who he was going to vote for, his allegiance was to Obama-- or at least, if he lived in the U.S. and could vote, he would vote for Barack. He didn't really care though, so long as a certain someone was pemanently evicted from Washington D.C. He said he had no sympathy for W. Well, neither do most people here. Myself included.

This was one of the most popular signs at an anti war demonstration in Trafalgar Square on Saturday. The British aren't particularly fond of Blair, either. They see him as W.'s British counterpart. At this protest, they had two guys dressed up as Bush and Blair. For a small price little kids got to hurl large wet sponges at their heads.

Seeing this reminded me of and image Professor Neiman-Aurbach showed us during the Summer Academy last year. In it, her now 9 year-old daughter Dalia wielded a sign in a picket line that was bigger than she was. Yes, indeed, protesting the government can be a family affair.

Keeping with the theme of public discontent over our "fearless leader:"

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/16/opinion/16dowd.html?_r=&hp&oref=slogin

The Masque of the Red Death Pt. 1

2008-03-11T14:06:00.000-07:00

Last night, I saw the most incredible piece of theatre that I have ever seen.

The show was called The Masque of the Red Death. I will try to do it justice, but I know that I won't be able to convey the mastery of these performers or the magic of their work.

So, first I'll tell about the plot, or at least, the inspiration for this show. I hesitate to call it a show, because this experience wasn't your average, "walk into a theatre, sit down in a chair, and watch the action unfold on the stage," type of experience, but I'll get to that later.

The Masque of the Red Death was inspired by the work of Edgar Allen Poe. Poe was an American writer of the literary Gothic genre. His stories are essentially ghost stories. They are creepy, they send tingles down your back.

Poe had certain ideas about the way his stories were supposed to be read. He wanted his stories to have a mesmerizing effect on his reader--meaning that he wanted his stories to act like hypnosis. He wanted his stories to submerge his reader in a world that was dark, a world of the uncanny, a world where people tried to find logical explanations for weird, scary things that happened in their lives, but never could.

Poe believed that his short stories should be read from beginning to end in one sitting. By reading a story continuously, he thought he could best mesmerize his audience, accelerating their pulse, allowing them to see shadows and hear their blood beating in tune to the sound hearts beating beneath floor boards.

The world of Poe's literature looks a lot like ours, except something is always a little bit off. his stories arouse a sort of feeling that to me is almost like the feeling of a lose hair touching the back of your arm. You can't ignore it. Although it's small, you can't forget the fact that it's there until you've managed to get rid of it.

And sometimes, it gives you goose bumps.

In Poe's world, there are long heavy curtains that are moved by an unfelt breeze, there are flickering lamps in dark wallpapered hallways, there are floorboards that creak when you walk up the stairs.

So, that's Poe.

Now do you want to know about the show?

This show was put together by a London based theatre company called Punchdrunk. They specialize in experimental-type theatre. Theatre as installation. Punchdrunk shows don't have a conventional stage. As a matter of fact, The Masque of the Red Death didn't even take place inside of a theatre. It took place inside of an old city hall type of building. So, going back to the idea of theatre as installation: since this show took place inside of a building, the whole building was the stage in a sense. The actors moved around from room to room. And we, the audience, followed them around. There were eight different stories being performed at once, at different places in the building, so audience members get to go where ever they want, and watch which ever story they want to watch. They follow the actors around, sometimes at a distance, at others they are actually running after them, unwilling to miss a single word, look, or action should they get separated from the actor by a mob of eager on lookers.

Did I mention that everyone in the audience is required to wear a mask?

Every person who is not acting is required to wear a mask for the duration of the show. The masks are white, and quite large. They cover the whole face, with an elastic strap that goes around the back of the head and makes for a lovely crease in the back of freshly styled hair. The masks look a lot like Commedia dell'arte masks, with large protruding noses that make you feel kind of like an albino pelican.

So, imagine that wherever there are actors performing, they are surrounded by or followed by a mob of people wearing large white pelican masks that cover their entire faces. Most people are also wearing black or red velvet capes that are assigned to them if they are brave enough to go into a cloak room manned by an actor with a brow bone matching that of the Monster from Frankenstein. Yes, I had a cloak. A long black one.

Now, I'll try to explain the building.

The ground floor was like a forest. There was huge trees set up with low hanging branches. On one side of the building there were doors leading it to what I imagine must have been the basement of the original city hall building, but now they led to two rooms. The first room was a crypt--a claustrophobic stone room with a low ceiling and a lone candle offering light. I can't tell you what was in the second room, as I never made it down there. I spent the least of my time on this first floor (the "show" lasted for about 3 hours), but I can tell you about at least one other room on the ground floor.

It was on the other side of the building. It looked like a banquet hall. There was a long table covered with a red table cloth and a large scratched up mirror leaning against a wall to the right of a stage that was situated at the end of one of the rooms. On the table were the remains of feast, half eaten fruit and loaves of bread, a boars head, and bones. I'm not sure about the boars head, but the rest of the food was real.

This room was home to the performance of "The System of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether." This particular performance was rather risque, so I'll just give you the description of the story that's in the program: "The narrator visits a private insane asylum, seemingly well run by a superintendent Monsieur Maillard. The narrator dines with the doctors. As dinner progresses things become a little stranger until the dinner party is transformed into a debauched and chaotic arena for the inmates." I will only add to that by saying that during the time when Poe wrote, lasciviousness could get you locked up in the loony bin...

Back out in the center of the forest, a grand staircase rose up to the second floor, splitting off on both sides, leading to different rooms on the left and right. This staircase was the real deal. The tile on the steps was mosaic, the banisters were made of marble. If you are standing at the foot of the staircase and looking up, you will see mist floating down, pink through the air as it hits beams of light coming from the stage lights that shine down among the red velvet drapery that hung from the ceiling. The railing that ran behind the staircase served as the base for three life sized Greek looking plaster statues of human beings that looked like they were crumbling before your eyes. And there were lights situated behind them, so that from the front, halos of light were shining out from behind them.

A number of different stories started on this grand staircase. One of them, one of my favorites, is called "Ligeia." "Ligeia" is a story of a man who is madly in love with is wife. When his wife dies, he remarries. Soon he realizes that he hates his second wife. She becomes ill, and though he can barely look at her, he begins to notice that her appearance begins to change as she retreats further and further into illness. But she doesn't look sicker and sicker, instead she begins to look more and more like his first wife, Ligeia. I won't tell you how the story ends, because if you haven't read this, I highly recommend it, I will, however, tell you how the actors performed this particular piece.

I feel like I need to explain that none of these performances are direct representations of the short stories. While they embody the essence of the story, they have been reworked so that they work in performance. None of Poe's short stories have stage directions, or instruction on how a person might perform them in scenes, so what the actors performed was inspired by the feelings and emotions present in the original stories. This is my best shot at what "Ligeia" looked like:

The scene took place inside a large room that was furnished like a bedroom in an old manor house, maybe even a castle. When I walked into the room, I was overcome with a smell like that you might find in a vintage clothing store. It smelled like old fabric, like sour perfume that had come from bottles long dried up, like formaldehyde and must, like memories expressed in Daguerrotypes.

To the left of the door was a massive bed, raised up, a four poster with a canopy and an old foggy mirror, quite long, the served as a headboard. When I walked into the room, the audience was standing in a circle around the two actors who were performing this story, one man and one woman. The young woman stood, immobile and ridged. Her curly red hair was pinned up, she wore a once white, now yellowed victorian dress with a high color and ripped shoulder seems, and it appeared that rigormortis had already set in. Standing in front of her was a young man. He wasn't too tall, but lean, in dress pants, white gauzy shirt and suspenders. His long dirty blonde hair was combed back, but it was bound to fall into his face eventually. He was moving and very much alive.

These two, one live, the other seemingly not, danced. But since she was performing the part of a character who could not move, it was her partner's job to make sure that she could follow his lead. He, essentially, moved every part of her body. He articulated her joint, bent her arms at the elbows when he needed too, and did the same with her legs, leaning into her knees. When her knees were locked, he rocked her from side to side. The effect was almost as if she was a stool, rocking back and forth from leg to leg. Yes, her whole body appeared to be made of wood. But the effect was incredible. Not once was she responsible for the movement of her own body. The whole time she was completely rigid.

But nevertheless they danced. He picked her up, moved her around. Her face sometimes moved, making it seem like she was conscious and stuck in a body that should could neither control or get out of. While she was not moving, if this piece had a star, she would have been it.

Part of the piece was performed on the bed, a necessary cushion for the sort of acrobatics that ensued. After laying her down to sleep, this man decided to try to rouse her from her trance, or sleep, or death.

In his attempt to bring her back from wherever it was that she had gone, this man rolled her around, lifted her up, threw her into pillows. It looked like some sort of angry floor routine from the gymnastic section of the Olympic Games. She never moved a muscle, but every one of her muscles was contracted. The muscles in her arms, her neck, her legs were tense. Her toes were even twisted up.

And she wasn't even breathing hard.

He was completely out of breath, but (and I was looking specifically to see if it would) her diaphragm stayed perfectly still.

Well, once he finally gave up, conceded defeat, and left the room, she woke up. And she wasn't happy. She awoke with what I would describe as the epitome of a blood-curdling scream.

Okay! I'll stop there for now, and I'll tell you more about it next time.

Quierida Nana

2008-03-11T14:03:00.001-07:00

Hi Nana!

My dad tells me that you're reading this now!

¡Te quiero, mucho!

--Coquinga

Reasons why auntie Rita rocks

2008-03-11T13:57:00.000-07:00

Spam for my

Ramen

Instant Oatmeal (Such a good idea!)

And she somehow knew how much I love Wonka Bottle Caps! (I'm in artificial soda pop heaven!)

Thanks so much, Auntie! Love you!

Terrifying

2008-03-09T03:25:00.001-07:00

Last night I had a dream that my hair was turning grey. It was terrifying.

Nick thought it was funny. He was laughing up a storm.

Imo, I'm watching you.

2008-03-08T15:09:00.001-08:00

The shades are hiding the Pink Eye. Yep. That's right. Conjunctivitis followed me to London. Damn.

Krusteaz

2008-03-06T11:52:00.000-08:00

Best pancakes of my life!

Hair

2008-03-05T12:49:00.000-08:00

Currently Reading:

2008-03-04T15:41:00.000-08:00

The Female Quixote, Charlotte Lennox

This novel is hilarious, but might be the sort of thing that only an English major with some experience reading 18th century British novels can appreciate.

An Essay on the Art of Ingeniously Tormenting, Jane Collier

This is a satirical work that instructs its reader on how to best torment all servants, husbands, children, and friends. It's basically an essay about nagging. Also, hilarious.

A Modest Proposal, Jonathan Swift

Another piece of 18th century satire. This piece offers an answer to the hunger crisis in Ireland at the time of its publication. Swift tells all the Irish Catholics to eat their babies in order to eliminate some hungry mouths while feeding others. The proposal acted as commentary on the behavior of the British and their callousness towards the Irish.

Directions to Servants, Swift

You guessed it! More 18th century satire! This time, though, Swift explains the best way for servants to mistreat their masters and mistresses.

The last three pieces in this list will turn into a paper as soon as I run out of methods of procrastination. Like this one, for example.

reasons why auntie Lisa rocks

2008-03-03T04:33:00.000-08:00

Lucky Charms

Goldfish

Pancake Mix

more Instant Mac and Cheese than I have ever seen in one place

I was so excited when I opened this box that I actually squealed! Thanks so much, auntie! I never have to go to the market again!

Love you!!!

All dungeon, no dragons

2008-03-03T01:14:00.001-08:00

Saturday we went on a day trip to Warwick Castle, which is situated on the River Avon.

(Yes, that's Billy Shakes' river.)

Like all of the other castles I've been to, this one had a gift shop that rivaled those at Disneyland, selling mounds and mounds of crap to eager tourists who cannot live without another mug, keychain and decorative spoons emblazoned with an image or word to remind them of the unique experience of visiting a commodified castle...

I've sort of gotten to the point where I think: another day, another castle. But I guess that is due to that fact that my mind still envisions castles as these magical fortresses where princesses spend their days traversing the grounds in ball gowns made of yards and yards of silk picking bouquets of wildflowers for their mothers and friends.

Castles are really nothing like that.

I find them gaudy. And cold. With lots of gold paint. On furniture, or door frames.

There are no princesses, or wildflowers.

In this particular castle, instead I found a dungeon.

This wasn't really an act of discovery. I didn't turn the wrong way down a dark corridor with a torch in hand. (As cool as that would have been.) There was a sign, and an arrow. The sign read, "dungeon," the arrow pointed down a narrow passageway with uneven stairs leading visitors underground.

Bizarre is the best way to describe this place.

I found myself in this small room made of stone. It was a little bit bigger than my dorm room, but not by much. There were no windows. And the room was empty except for two cages hanging from the ceiling. One, which was in a corner and illuminated by a dimmed florescent type light, looked like an oversized bird cage. The second was the more disturbing of the two.

When I first walked into this room the first thing that came to my mind was the idea of space. About inhabiting space. When I walked into that room I was standing on stones that we once covered in blood, and feces, and I don't even want to think about what else. I was standing in the place where a savage guard, or sniveling prisoner might once have stood. I was breathing in air that occupied a space once rank and hot and sticky with dirt and savagery.

And then I looked up and over and saw that cage. The second cage. I don't know if this fixture was an original. I certainly hope it was a replica.

It was shaped like a human body. Image a body suit made out of metal bars with arm and leg holes that come half way down the limbs so that elbows and knees can move freely. This was the second cage suspended from the ceiling.

On the wall below it, a plaque explained its use. Apparently, prisoners were put into this contraption. They were left here until their decomposed bodies fell out of it on their own.

This was the space I was occupying.

A young family was also in this room with me. Mother, father, baby and little boy. He might have been 5 or 6. He asked his dad what the body cage was used for. His father told him that it was used for people who were very naughty in the olden times. That comment, who said it, who was meant to hear it, all of it, made the experience of being in that room even more weird than it already was.

Travels

2008-02-29T16:54:00.000-08:00

This is the part where I tell everyone about my travel plans for the month of March! I will be acquiring many new exciting stamps and things on my passport and taking an embarrassing number of photographs in the following locations:

PARIS

Claire, Sydney, Alissa, and myself will be going to Paris for what will certainly be two of the craziest days of my life from March 20-22. We're basically going to see all the big sights and gorge ourselves with croissants. They're might also be some shopping.

And of course, the main reason we're going: to put paper cranes on Jim Morrison's grave. A sort of "Thank You" and "You kick so much ass!" gift from the dance drama kids.

PRAGUE

The day after Paris, Claire and Syd will jump on a plane back to Dublin, while I will hop onto a plane bound for Prague. Prague is the capital of the Czech Republic, and everyone I know who has been has nothing but good things to say about it. I'll be there from March 23rd-26th.

Eastern Europe, ahoy.

(And, so help me, I will also get to Hungary before I leave Europe if I have to hop on a gypsy caravan to get there.)

I'm meeting up with Monika, Jessica, and Cat in Prague. From there we will travel together to:

SPAIN

Barcelona, Madrid and Granada

March 26th we fly to Barcelona from Prague. We're flying on a Spanish airline, and I'm really excited to finally put Spanish to a useful purpose. And also kind of interested to see if I actually can use my Spanish. Meaning, will anyone who actually speaks Spanish have any idea what the hell I'm talking about?

We're staying in Barcelona for 3 days. I'm hoping for "warm" weather. This is a relative term. Right now, I consider anything over 52 degrees to be a miracle. If it's in the 60s I'll be happy. If it's in the 70s, I just might actually weep for joy.

On the 29th we're taking a train to Madrid, where we will be for another 3 days and I will be, hopefully, living in El Prado. I'm especially excited for El Prado because I remember sitting in a history class in high school and reading about a Velázquez painting and learning that it was housed there. I remember thinking, "I'm going to go there one day." Well, boo-ya! Velázquez, I'm coming. (I just hope the painting isn't on loan, or something...)

From Madrid we'll head to the south, again via train, on the 1st of April. We'll be in Granada for three additional days, which will include a tour of Alhambra Castle.

We will come back to London, completely exhausted the night April 3rd.

That's all I have for now. Soooo excited!!!

Kisses, Imo

2008-02-28T16:17:00.000-08:00

Dear Uncle Imo,

I wanted to extend my most sincere apologies for not having sooner expressed my gratitude for your most generous gift. Your generosity, as always, is most appreciated.

Though late, your gift made my Valentine's Day very special.

Most Sincerely,

Coco

p.s. But seriously, Thanks! I love getting mail, and it really made me laugh and smile! Kisses!

My new favorite thing

2008-02-27T17:48:00.000-08:00

Watching British people trying to do the "Soulja Boy" is quite possibly the funniest thing ever to be witnessed by mankind.

Dance on, white boys!

The Royal Ballet

2008-02-23T16:44:00.000-08:00

I went to the Royal Ballet tonight and it was AMAZING. It was a triple bill, so Alissa and I saw "Chroma," "Different Drummer," and "The Rite of Spring."

Chroma was v. contemporary, and choreographed by a man who utilizes ideas from neuroscience and brain behavioral study in his choreography (Alissa, a neuroscience major, nearly had a cow when she found out...). The score for the piece included music composed by Jack White III (aka, the guy from the White Stripes). I can't tell you how cool it is to listen to "The Hardest Button to Button" as performed by a full orchestra at the Royal Opera House.

Different Drummer was kind of disturbing. In a subtle way. It was about war. And the use of soldiers as science experiments. And climaxes with the hero killing his wife by stabbing her again and again with a razor. Cheerful stuff.

The Rite of Spring was INCREDIBLE. Now, I know virtually nothing about dance. (I say virtually because I do know who Martha Graham is.) But I know this was good. The visual images that came alive on the stage were completely captivating. I was in the moment, the whole time. And, I am very rarely in the moment. I'm usually worried about at least four things at a time, some of them serious, others complete irrelevant when considered outside the bounds of my imagination. But while I was watching this piece, I was paying full attention. It was really cool. Not many things have that sort of effect on me.

I saw it as exploring ideas of a primordial world, where power systems are arbitrary, but also completely unquestioned. Where life is up to chance, and people run around systematically imitating the people who are in line before them.

It was also v. pretty.

The set design was exquisite. The stage looked like it had been painted with grotesquely distorted images of giant feathers. Perhaps the result of an explosion of birds. Nothing too clean. But not as disturbing as that description may sound.

The costumes looked like they may have come out of the closet used to dress the chorus members in The Lion King. Bright orange body suits with yellow and black and white hand prints all over them. They reminded me of those pictures of ancient cave drawings that one sees in the pages of National Geographic.

The women also had on these awesome wigs. How they kept them on their heads is beyond me. I can't imagine how many bobby pins they must have used. The wigs kind of looked like very long mops, with the ends of the little robes painted black. When the dancers tossed their heads the ropes when flying into the air, only to remember while in the act of retreating from the stage that they were in fact tethered to the dancers, and had no choice but to return.

Anyway, the show was beautiful.

All three shows were beautiful, and made for a wonderful evening.

Our seats were pretty high up, but not too high, and dead center.

I loved it. I'm so glad I went. And I'm in a great mood right now. Can you tell?

Scotland!

2008-02-19T14:01:00.000-08:00

Claire and I and the Highlands; The Highlands; Claire and I on the boat cruising Loch Lomond, Me at a creepy park that used to be a loch and was formerly used for sewage run-off and as the place where witches were drowned... (very fertile soil, now...); Claire and I in front of the Edinburgh Castle.

Because this website is being incredibly tempermental, I am having trouble uploading all the photos that I would like to share with you. I might just have to add them a little bit at a time.

Scotland. Scotland was great. Scotland was great because I got to see and spend time with my Clairey in a really beautiful place, and it also allowed me the opportunity to travel by myself for the first time in my life. I did the transit stuff by myself. This required me to get up at 2:45 AM on Friday to catch a cab at 3:30 on the lonely streets of a cold London morning in order to make it to Victoria Station to catch the Gatwick Express to Gatwick airport at 4:30 in order to make my 6:05 flight. Whew! That was a mouthful.

"Why the hell did she book such an early flight?" you may ask.

Answer is simple. It was the cheapest.

Because I hate to fly (something I realize more and more every time I'm on a plane) I was completely awake for the short flight.

The guy sitting in front of me kept scratching his frizzy flaxen head. I thought of my mom upon seeing this. I figured she would have commented on his need for Friz-Ease, or said that he had fleas, or called him Scratchy, or something. I love my mom.

Once we started to descend into the Edinburgh airport my attention switched from a memory of a documentary that I once saw describing all the different types of lice in Bob Marley's hair when he died, to looking down upon the vast verdigris of the Scottish Highlands. I realized as we got closer and closer to the ground that the little white splotches that sporadically appeared among mounds of green were in fact snow. It was absolutely beautiful.

At the airport I reunited with Clairey. She was wearing about 6 layers. "Girl from Tucson goes to Ireland and freezes her ass off," she explained.

Once we got to Edinburgh we got lost a few times, thanks to my inability to make any sense of a universally acknowledged system of direction (Never Eat Shredded Wheat), and then we found our hostel. We dropped off our bags and headed back out into the cold to scrounge up some breakfast. We stumbled across The Three Sisters, a pub that served breakfast starting at 9:00AM. We were starved. We didn't think twice about eating there. And I was pretty happy to be eating at a place called "The Three Sisters" in the land of Macbeth. (My internal monologue: The Three Sisters> the Wëird Sisters> there were three of them> Yes!)

Claire ate some haggis while I looked on in horror. It looked like it just may have come out of a cauldron.

All in all, the grub wasn't bad.

We went back to our hostel to embark on a guided walking tour of the city with Tom. Tom introduced himself saying, "Hi. I'm Tom. I'm from Australia, and I've been in Edinburgh for three weeks."

Yep. This was going to be good.

Tom wasn't all that bad. Though in the end he turned out to be a bit of a pretentious-know-it-all-jerk-face, the tour was entertaining if not completely enjoyable due to Claire and my lack of sleep from the night before.

He shared with us many gory details about the bloody history of Edinburgh. About ghosts and the drowning of witches and sewage run off things that I'd rather not think about. (Quite the charmer, as you can surely tell.) He also introduced the idea of going on the "City of the Dead Tour" which Claire had her heart set on.

Since I know better than to subject my sensitive constitution to such things, I refused to go. I don't doubt for a minute that it was better this way. Especially after Claire's friend Allison told us that when she and a friend went on this tour when they first moved to Edinburgh to attend law school, her friend was so frightened that she literally passed out on the tour in some crypt someplace. That totally would have been me. No thank you!

(And Adam, if you're reading this, go ahead and make fun of me. I would rather not pass out in any crypts thankyouverymuch!)

Friday night we went on a pub crawl. The night concluded at a pub/ bar called Frankenstein. The DJ at this place was straight up out of his mind. His playlist included:

Stronger- Kanye West

Can't Touch This- MC Hammer

Something by The Strokes

A song by Dolly Parton

and a number of other v. random selections that Claire probably remembers in total.

DAY 2: We went around the city, seeing a number of museums and eating the best piece of apple pie that has ever touched my lips for dessert after lunch.

Something very interesting happened when we were looking for a place to eat for dinner.

A woman came up to us when we were looking at a menu on a restaurant window. She told us to get inside because the sirens meant that trouble was coming. (We had no clue what sirens she was talking about.) Then she pulled out a red umbrella and said that she had been attacked before.

Well, whatever her delusional mind may have been attacked by, I can assure you that her teeth hadn't been attacked by a toothbrush at any time in recent past.

While doom never befell us, as soon as this woman had imparted her wisdom, this group of drunken teenagers came rambling through the street. This guy, maybe 13 or 14, was yelling and trying to free himself from the clutches of two young girls who were clinging onto him, trying to drag him to the ground, and yelling back at him with a volume that matched his own. Behind them walked a group of older guys. I don't know if they were looking to have a word or two with screaming boy, but they didn't appear to be too happy.

Claire and I then found our way into a restaurant that was trying to be an Applebee's (and served Claire a chocolate shake that tasted a little too much like cake batter for it's own good). As we sat down at the window to wait for a table to become available, the street outside became eerily empty, and a group of mean looking guys ducked into an alleyway across the street. For a while I was convinced that a street brawl was about to ensue. In my mind this brawl resulted in one of the mean looking Scottish gangsters getting hurled through the window we were looking out of. That, or we would have a front row view as the riders of the apocolypse rode through the deserted street of the Royal Mile.

Neither of these things happened, thankfully. But this account provides a perfect example of my susceptibility to frightening ideas or circumstances, which offers even more support to my opinion that going on the "City of the Dead Tour" was the worst idea EVER. (Sorry, Claire.)

DAY 3: We went on a lovely tour of Loch Lomond. We had wanted to go Nessie hunting, but sadly the Loch Ness tour sold out right before we got to the ticket booth. So, instead, we rode on a bus through the rolling green hills and gales of Scotland, and the views were beautiful. As was the site of Claire sleeping during at least half of the bus ride. She really likes to nap :)

We took lots of pictures and learned a bunch of interesting facts from out tour guide including the fact that the film Braveheart is a load of crap. I will now dispense with a bit more of the knowledge he imparted on us:

In Scotland a Glen is a valley, and a Ben is a hill.

Traditionally, only highlanders wore kilts. (And real Scotsmen wear nothing under their kilts.)

We took a boat ride on the Loch, and were v. amused at the site of a man who was basically the French equivalent of what would happen if the characters of Dwight and Creed (from The Office) were combined into one human being.

That night we went to dinner with Claire's friend Allie, who lives in Edinburgh. The two met when Allie did an exchange at Claire's high school. We ate Mexican food for dinner, which was quite hilarious. After din, we went to the Elephant Cafe, the birthplace of Harry Potter, where we drank hot chocolate and tried to soak up J.K. Rowling vibes. (She wrote Harry Potter in this very cafe!!!)

On Monday morning, we woke up at an obscene hour, jumped on a bus, jumped on different planes, and I came back to London while Clairey returned to her Emerald Isle.

After just a weekend, I was so excited to come back to London. When I came out of the tube station and onto Tottenham Court Road, I actually smiled to see the sun trying to shine down through the London smog. And I like that I'm starting to associate London with a sense of familiarity.

Don't worry, I'm coming home in June, but for now, I'm really happy to be here.

My next trip is planned for March. I'm headed to France with Syd, Claire, and Alissa. Yes. It's going to be legendary. Watch out Paris, here we come. Be very, very afraid.

The Land of Scots

2008-02-15T12:44:00.000-08:00

I only have 4 minutes left of internet, so I'm going to make this quick:

Edinburgh is really cool.

It's really spooky, but Claire and I are having a good time. I'll explain this statement in more detail when I get home.

Just wanted everyone to know that I'm doing well.

LOVE!

And Imo, I'm still waiting on that money!

Imo, give me my money

2008-02-11T09:02:00.000-08:00

Hey Imo,

Just wanted to let you know that I have yet to receive your Valentine's Day card. Also, I think I should get at least a pound out of you for Valentine's Day.

My mom told me that you read this. So, pay up.

Xoxo,

Nicole

The Sky is BLUE!

2008-02-09T02:23:00.000-08:00

I went to club Koko again last night with some friends. And something kind of cool happened.

Well, I think it's cool at least.

We were on the dance floor, and this club plays a lot of indie british and some American rock. The DJ was really good, and also quite amusing to watch because he was rockin' out white-boy/ i-wanna-be-a-rock-star-style. In a moment of brilliance he started playing "Nobody Move Nobody Get Hurt" by We Are Scientists. This made me incredibly happy. Not only because I love the song, but because the band is made up of a guy that went to Harvey Mudd and two guys that went to Pomona College. I was in this ridiculous club, and I felt a bit of a 5-C hug.

Basically it made me think about the world, how randomly connected people and places are. It made me happy. It made me happy that three guys who spent part of these lives in the same place as me had music blasting so far away from home, and had a bunch of wacked-out British kids singing along to their lyrics at the tops of their lungs.

Last night also included a live band, The Runners. (They're on myspace I think.) While music is more Clairey's thing than mine, I thought these guys were INCREDIBLE. The lead singer man was channeling Mick Jagger (circa 1965) like you wouldn't believe. He also had a really great voice. (I value this in live performance.)

Today I'm headed into Chinatown to celebrate Chinese New Year. I'll let you know how it goes.

Friday I'm off to Scotland with one of my favorites! We'll take pictures and send post cards.

LOVE!

Yes, I do realize that this is just another form of procrastination

2008-02-05T09:19:00.000-08:00

It's that time again. Paper-writing time.

Last time I wrote about Pinter, this time I'm writing about Keats.

This paper is due by 5PM tomorrow, and I'm still not entirely sure what I'm writing about. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I haven't been working on this. I've been writing and re-writing for days, but my topic keeps evolving, and while I'm nearly certain to continue in the current vein of writing about the worship of the body over the spirit in situations of romantic love as depicted in The Eve of St. Agnes and Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil, I'm getting to that dreaded point where I'm running out of things to say. This would be fine if I didn't have 600 words to go to meet the word count minimum. Boo.

In the meantime, I have succeeded in cleaning my room and going to the gym. I have watched all of the super bowl commercials deemed "good" by the Huffington Post. (The barfing baby is not funny, it's gross. The dancing geckos, however, are genius.) I have even listened to the entire cast recording of the Miser. (I was complaining to Caroline that I had the songs stuck in my head and she gave me the link to the recording online...) I have done dishes, reorganized my shelf, and a number of equally non-productive things...

A revelation

2008-02-02T05:35:00.000-08:00

Last night a friend of mine told me that he was going to a cast party with a bunch of people who I very much love and I got sad. For about three minutes. Because after three minutes I remembered: I AM IN LONDON!!!! Wooooooo!

Okay, so here's what happened.

2008-01-30T14:09:00.000-08:00

Some of you may have heard that I sent my mom a rather strange text message today.

So, here's what happened. I went to the Tate Modern with my friend Jessica because we don't have class on Wednesdays, so we thought we would take a break from reading to go culture ourselves.

Another friend, Monika, was going to meet us there, but got held up doing her Econ homework with her study group. She told us to call her when we left so that, if she decided to come, she wouldn't be coming just was we were leaving.

Well, because I'm an idiot, I forgot to call her when we were leaving. I remembered just as we were going down the escalator into the Tube (subway). She didn't answer, so I sent her a text message that said, "coming home."

Once in the tube, I have no service, so I did this really quickly while on the escalator.

When I got home I asked Monika if she had got my text message. She hadn't, which I thought was strange.

I came into my room, signed online and my dad called me on Skype and asked me if I was okay. I could tell something was wrong by the sound of his voice. I said yes, and asked him why he was asking me if I was okay.

Because, he said, your mom got a text message from you saying you were coming home.

In my phone "Mom's Cell" comes right before "Monika."

As my grandpa would say, ¡Andale!

So, I basically sent my parents, and who ever they told from the time it took me to get from the south bank of the Thames back to my Central London dorm room, into panic attacks and states of heightened blood pressure because I don't know how to properly use my piece of honkey-ass crap cell phone properly.

I'm incredibly sorry.

I assure you, I am fine. I posted some pictures to prove it.

This, my family and friends, is another one of many reasons why I HATE text messaging.

Windsor and Eton

2008-01-30T13:00:00.001-08:00

On Saturday the UCL students on home stays in Surrey got to go on a day trip to Windsor Castle. This was the first castle I have been to since coming here. And it kind of got me thinking.

Also, if you'd prefer to not read some mildy critical ideas about riches and splendor, I would skip to the next post.

First, like many things in England, this castle is older than my entire country. People have been coming and going since way before Columbus came and brought disease and death to the people that lived in the United States before we did. This, I thought, was kind of cool.

Some of the things in the castle itself I thought to be rather ridiculous. What is the point of all the grandeur? As if vaulted gothic ceilings weren't enough, must you trim them in gold? I saw a whole hallway full of royal china, glorified cups, bowls, and plates arranged asthetically in cabinet after cabinet. I mean, what does it all mean? Why did fashion houses like Rochas and Lanvin create dresses and hats for toy dolls as gifts to princesses from the children of France? Did the children of France get such lavish gifts from the princesses? I mean, yes it's history. These sorts of displays document the past. But, really, when it comes down to it, who cares about hundreds of years worth of china? And what is so great about vaulted ceilings painted with gold leaf trim? They're ultimately just ceilings. Fancy ceilings, yes. But they're just ceilings. And china. And clothing for dolls.

Despite my grumpy rantings about the aforementioned, the paintings hanging in the different rooms of the castle were magnificent. I finally got to see this painting of Elizabeth I that I remember seeing in a history text book at some point during high school. (That woman wrote some awesome speeches and great poetry!) I didn't know it was there beforehand, or anything, but when I saw it I had a huge goofy grin on my face.

After we were through touring Windsor Castle, we went over to Eton to check out Eton College, the royal academy where Prince William and Henry went to school. It looked really interesting from the outside, but we weren't allowed in. Luckily, someone had left a small door open, so I was sneaky and snapped a picture of what looks like the main courtyard. I'm going to try to get more photos on here as soon as I figure out how to do it.

The sky was blue. It was a lovely day.

No. 4 Privet Drive

2008-01-30T01:50:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I packed up my not so little overnight bag and headed out of London with the other UCL students on my program to participate in a weekend home stay with a British family. UCL students were put into groups of two so that we would have a buddy with us at our home stay. Kathy, a girl who goes to Smith College in the U.S., and I were paired together.

Our home stay was in Surrey, a county just 40 or so minutes outside of London. The huge nerd inside of me was REALLY excited to be going to Surrey because, as some of you may know, that's where Harry Potter's Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and cousin Dudley live. Luckily, my home stay was not with the Dursley's, but the Scalans: Tony, Diane and Harriet.

Harriet is seven. She laughs as much as she talks and was rather excited to have her picture taken.

For twelve years the Scalans have been opening their home to international students, but we were only the third set of American students they have hosted.

Diane told us that Harriet had never been so excited to meet and play with students before.

"That's because they speak my language, mum," she explained.

Diane takes care of young children out of her home so she has a play room stocked full of every board game and children's book you could ever imagine. Our first night there, Harriet insisted on playing Monopoly Junior. When she saw that I was beating her, she started flicking all of my little green houses off the game board and into oblivion. She was vicious, I tell you.

Harriet also explained to us that Winnie the Pooh was her favorite Disney Character, that she loves High School Musical (which she really wanted to watch, but luckily I talked her out of it and thus I continue, unscathed, in my refusal to watch those movies!), and she has a hamster named Bobby who Kathy and I saw trying to escape for his life Saturday night.

I also saw Happy Feet for the first time. I found it a bit strange...

Though I was only there for two days, it was very interesting to see the interactions of this particular family, and just to hear the way they spoke to one another.

It was also incredibly nice to be in a house. We slept in the attic, a very comfortable baby blue colored room with six beds (two singles, a set of bunk beds, and another single that is actually a trundle) where Tony and Diane always put the students that stay with them. We ate cereal and tea for breakfast and Diane made us an INCREDIBLE roast dinner on Saturday night. Roast beef, a ton of fresh veggies, Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes. Yum.

One thing I really got a kick out of while eating there was Harriet's use of the word "nice." Instead of asking if something tasted good she would ask, "Is it nice?" I tried to imagine my cousins asking me this when they were younger, but simply couldn't.

The Goat Man

2008-01-29T04:51:00.000-08:00

I have a professor who looks like a goat. Like Dr. Dillamond from Wicked. Luckily, he doesn't have hooves for hands or we'd have a real problem, here.

The Goat man, as Jessica, my fellow English major, calls him, gave the lecture today for my Shakespeare class.

I have no idea what the lecture was about. The lecture was supposed to be on As You Like It. This man's topics of discussion ranged from cliches, to beards, to feces. There was also a point where I honestly couldn't tell you if he was speaking English. I think it might have been Dutch, but it could have been English. I'm just not sure.

This is the same man who, two weeks ago during my seminar about women writers during the Restoration and the 18th Century said something along the lines of (and he was dead serious), "This woman's writing is interesting, and for a long time it was forgotten, so I guess some good did come out of the women's movement."

(Let me clarify that this statement implied that this was one example of the little good that came out of the women's movement.)

I'm pretty sure my jaw had dropped to the table at this comment.

"Pop!" went the Scripps bubble.

All I wanted was an angry mob of Scrippsies to barge through the door with torches and pitchforks, pick him up and carry him to the bank of the Thames for a little swim.

He's one of those old men, those old British Literature professors, who is incredibly intelligent and respectable in terms of his expertise, but is stuck in another era. He's like a walking time capsule whose constantly wearing the same plaid coat fully equipped with leather elbow patches.

Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on him; but, still, I miss Peavoy and Kimberly Drake.

Latto in London

2008-01-29T00:43:00.000-08:00

Last week, my friend Lauren came to visit for a few days. Her lucky little butt has been traveling through Europe for a month, like a cute little vagabond, stopping to see a number of friends along the way. Her study abroad program in Argentina does start until the middle of February, so she's had some time to kill.

She killed some of that time with me last week. When she arrived, I made fun of her for a good while about this truly stunning brown plastic irridescent bag with faux snakeskin trim that she was carrying. Her bag got slashed by gypsies when she was in Prague, and she was thus required to buy a new one. (Let me explain the slashing bit. In Europe, pickpockets sometimes use razor blades to slash open the sides of bags and purses in order to more easily steal your valuables. Lauren's wallet was stolen.) I guess this was the first replacement bag she could find. Isn't it stunning?

We went to dinner at this restaurant that I'm now obsessed with. It was recommended to me in Claremont by Sarah Erickson, one of the women who was working as an Admission Officer in the Office of Admission at Scripps. It's called Wagamama. It's a Japanese noodle restaurant, and it's incredibly delicious.

On Wednesday, we went to Kensington and walked around. I finally went to Harrods which is one of the weirdest places I have ever been to. In one room you have $10,000 handbags, in the next you have a butcher and a dim sum place. What is that?

After touring strangeville, went took a stroll through Hyde Park, which is now one of my favorite places in all the world. I saw a very cute dog that made me miss my cat. Strange, but true.

Finally, we went to tea at the Dorchester. Oh, it was delicious. We started with Rose champagne and moved onto tea sandwiches, followed by scones and little tea cakes and the Dorchester blend for tea. The service was wonderful, the dining room was incredibly comfortable. My kind of place.

Don't ask about the bill, please.

And, I'm back

2008-01-29T00:22:00.000-08:00

Oh, my poor little blog. How I have neglected you!

In my lifetime I have probably acquired something like 5 diaries with little metal locks, and 10 journals and notebooks that lay scattered in places where they are not meant to be found, and there have probably been 3 or 4 accounts on virtual diary sites. As for the diaries I have lost the locks. I have forgotten when I put the journals and notebooks. The websites unfortunately come back to haunt me every now and again, full of emo rantings from my adolescence, but I always forget the passwords. This, of course, poses a problem in trying to destroy them.

So, you see, I have a problem with consistency. I always try to start journals and things because I have this romanticized vision of handing my daughter a box of them some day and saying, "No, really. I understand. Here's proof." She will then read them voraciously, and be occasionally inspired by the insightful bits and often amused by my ridiculousness, and then she will understand me. Or, something. That was the plan, anyway, when I was about 12. So when I write, I always write to some fictional girl with dark curly hair and big brown eyes. Maybe what I'm really doing is writing to a younger version of myself, hoping that by some twist of time and space she will get my messages. I don't know.

ANYWAY, what I'm trying to explain is that it's incredibly hard for me, for one reason or another, to keep up with a journal, or in this case, a blog. I'm always really excited about it at first, and then get lost in my own little world and forget about keeping it up. That's not going to happen this time.

So, rather than write one monstrous entry about all I've done since last we met, I'm going to write psuedo-episodes. They will of course appear on the blog before this one, but I guess when you have read this, you will understand the onslaught of posts, and why they are in reverse chronological order.

Love and miss you all!

I think I know what aliens look like

2008-01-21T09:24:00.000-08:00

I think I know what aliens look like because I'm pretty sure an alien came out of my nose this morning.

Sick again. This time: sinus infection.

My achy face and overall discomfort resulted in going to the student health center this morning. While I have heard horror stories of ineffectiveness and disorganization from my comrades back in Claremont about the much beloved student health center there, I must say that my experience this morning was not at all painful. The worst part was having to walk three blocks in the freezing wind. Once I got there, I sat in the waiting room with the other walk-ins, who were releasing their cooties into the room with every exhalation, until my name appeared on this little ticker telling me that it was my turn to see a doctor.

Now, some of you may not know this, but I HATE going to the doctor. This sense of fear and anxiety comes over me that usually results in the nurse having to take my blood pressure three times in order to get a proper reading. So, needless to say, going to a doctor that is not at the Kaiser Lakeview medical office was a bit unnerving.

I walked into Dr. Smith's office to meet a very small blonde lady with her hair in a messy ponytail. She invited me to sit down, and then asked me for the reason I came into the doctor. There was no freezing examining room. No white lab coat with stethoscope and cold handshake. Not even a tongue depressor in sight. We were in her office, she was sitting at her desk, and I was sitting in the chair opposite. She asked me a number of questions, told me that in the UK doctors don't generally prescribe antibiotics, and then told me that since I come from a healthcare system that generally does prescribe them (too often) that if I would like them, she would give them to me. So I asked for Amoxicillin. My antibiotic of choice.

I don't want to make it sound like she didn't know what she was doing. She did the ear and nose thing and did produce a tongue depressor and told me to go "ahhh." But she was so nice. She actually talked to me and chatted about the time she spent studying abroad in New Zealand when she found out that I was studying abroad in the UK. And she commiserated with me about the confusion that can come with going into a new healthcare system. She was incredibly nice.

There was no charge to go to the doctor. No charge for the prescription. The only thing I had to pay for was to get the prescription filled at the pharmacy. It was incredible.

Welcome to the world of national healthcare.

Now, to fight the aliens...

Mid-paper ponderings

2008-01-19T15:08:00.000-08:00

I need a break from writing.

I love making lists. This one is called:

"Things that exist in London that I had hoped hadn't spread beyond the boundaries of the United States"

1. Hummer Stretch Limos

2. KFC

3. Girls who go to the gym in a pink track suit, a thick layer of make-up, obsessively styled hair, and too much perfume.

Club Koko

2008-01-19T11:59:00.000-08:00

So last night I did something completely out of character and went to this club with my friends.

The club, Koko, was in Camden, about a 20 minute walk from my dorm. While I am the type who much refers to stay in and laugh too loud with a group of friends instead of subjecting myself to premature hearing loss in these loud public places, I must say that I had quite an enjoyable time. The building, in itself, was awesome. Koko is housed in what used to be a theatre. The inside reminded me sort of a less art-deco version of The Pantages. And very red. (Think Moulin Rouge, Syd.) All of the seating is removed from the orchestra and the mezzanine and the open space that is left behind is used as the main dance floor/ lounge area. In front of the stage was this huge screen, onto which some random old black and white movie was being projected. The whole experience was highly post-modern. In an old theatre young kids dance to indie British rock music, while an old movie plays behind them. And, of course, there is a disco ball shining overhead. At about 1 this band unexpectedly began to play on the stage, which was really fun. Dancing and rock concert all in one night. Not nearly as nice, though, was the putrid scum left on my shoes and feet after a night of being unintentionally doused with beer, and random mixed drinks on the dance floor.

I woke up today, later than expected, after having a dream that the gang was having a loud party in Taj and Tyrus' suite. I kind of just laid in bed after I woke up, trying to fall back into the dream. Sadly, I was awake as awake could be. So I read The Mysteries of Udolpho for a while until Jessica and I departed for the super market. Today's expedition was quite the learning experience.

In Southern California, when you go to the super market, you don't necessarily think about the weight of the items you buy since you just throw them in the trunk and merrily drive yourself home. Well, when you live in a city that requires you carry all of your groceries home, weight becomes incredibly important. My shoulders will not be happy tomorrow. Luckily, I have a ton of delicious food that I'm going to try not to ruin in my thus-far futile attempts at culinary genius. Mom, I need your help! I can't cook! AHHHHHH! (I did manage to make rice tonight. Thanks for that lesson, Mom!)

I made stir fry tonight. With tofu. It was okay, but the seasoning stuff I put in it was kind of gross, which is rather unfortunate considering the price. Now I know not to buy that crap again.

I have a brownie waiting for me for dessert though. Excellent.

Now, I have a paper to write. Lauren's coming into London on Tuesday. We're going to afternoon tea at the Dorchester. My paper is technically due on Tuesday, so tea is my motivation to finish it early. So here I go!

This is why my room smells like garlic bread

2008-01-16T15:19:00.000-08:00

So, I don't cook. Well, I mean, I can make eggs and pancakes, ground beef, and guacamole, a rather unfortunate mixture never to be eaten all at once. But, if given a pile of ingredients, I can't promise much.

Here, in London, I don't have a meal plan, so I have to cook for myself. And this is totally fine because I like the challenge (yes, for me it's a challenge) of getting off my lazy behind and walking into the kitchen and actually making something instead of going to a cafeteria with a bowl and expectant stomach, not having to do any work beyond standing in line.

Well, Tuesday, in my attempt to liven up some rather bland chicken (and yes, I must confess I bought it pre-cooked from the grocery store) I managed to spill "garlic granules," because I couldn't find garlic power anyplace at the grocery store, all over my bedroom floor.

Second part of the story:

My radiator doesn't work. I mean, in theory, yes, it's on, but it's not actually producing heat. This is a problem when I have a huge window that permits a rather icy draft to float across my bed. Luckily, I have a acquired a small but efficient space heater from the manager of my building until the maintenance guy makes his way up here to infuse some warmth into my radiator.

So, at about six, I turn on my space heater so that I don't need to put on Underarmor, and two pairs of socks, a puffer jacket and beanie in order to maintain a comfortable body temperature.

Well, the space heater sits on the floor. There are garlic granules on my floor. Combine the two and what do you get? The sweet aroma of roasted garlic. Yummy in theory, kind of gross in reality. But at least this way, I'm keeping the vampires away.

Of course the simple solution to this unintentional culinary feat is to vacuum. The thing is, I have to request a vacuum from the front desk. Takes a while to reserve one from what I understand. So, while I'm waiting, I'll just continue to crave Italian food.

Weekend Update

2008-01-13T13:51:00.000-08:00

So after building the world's tallest tower of used tissue in my trash can last week, I am finally feeling better! I'm still coughing a bit, and my sinuses are a bit confused, but overall my potential for contagion has subsided. Unfortunately, I managed to get a couple of my friends sick in the process. I've been saying "sorry" every time Jessica coughs. Luckily they've been pretty nice about it.

Saturday morning, after my first tube ride (in London "tube" means "subway") some friends and I ventured into Notting Hill (a ritzy sort of usually quiet neighborhood made famous by the Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts movie of years past). Saturday morning the main road that runs through Notting Hill, Portobello Road, hosts a sort of antique market where every American within a 10 mile radius congregates in mass, thus disrupting the quiet and the (usually non-existing) traffic in the area. That doesn't seem to phase some residents, though, who insist on driving down the street, in the middle of the market, at what must be no faster than 5 mph, with incredibly unphased looks on their faces.

Did I mention that it was sunny on Saturday? It was still only about 50 degrees, but the clouds opened to reveal that there really is a sky over London! It was fantastic. A terrific day only improved by the fact that we came across The Hummingbird Bakery on Portobello Road, a small little place filled with overpriced cupcakes. (It reminded me of the Magnolia Bakery, Zo, but cuter!) I got a couple red velvets. (My favorite.) They did not disappoint. (But Sprinkle's frosting is still better, Mom!)

On Saturday evening I ventured out to meet up with Litza who was in London for the day visiting with some of her friends from her high school in Taiwan. We sat in a subterranean lounge in a Starbucks on west Oxford Street. It was great to see her, and also great to say goodbye (in the middle of a crowded subway car) since I wasn't able to say goodbye to her before leaving Claremont. Unfortunately Litza got Shaker songs stuck in my head. With the addition of her facebook post, I have been singing "hop up and jump up and whirl round whirl round" in my head all day. This, of course, makes me miss all my Heaven girls.

Tonight our entire floor went out to eat at an Indian restaurant. There were 21 of us. It was hysterical leaving the building together because it looked like Astor College (which is the name of my dorm) was being evacuated or something. The food was delicious (I had Tandoori chicken with garlic nan) and it was really nice to talk to some new people who I hadn't met before and "bond," as Monika put it, with some of the other people on my floor. Magically, we figured out the bill without incident.

At the end of dinner I had this overwhelming "I miss Tyrus!" feeling. I think I will make him take me to Sprinkles upon my return in June. Make it happen, Ty.

I have my first seminar tomorrow, and I have high hopes. My lectures thus far haven't been all that inspiring. I hoping that my fellow students will have more interesting things to say than some of my lecturers have. Tomorrow's seminar is for my Shakespeare course. The topic: Gender Play and Female Power in Twelfth Night and The Merry Wives of Windsor. I'm excited, needless to say. I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Class, Day 1

2008-01-08T13:45:00.000-08:00

The wind is blowing and I am coughing. Sucks. Seriously. My friends are out at a pub right now, and unwilling to subject my already rebellious lungs to a shock of air at a brisk 48 degrees, I am holed up in my room about to crack open the Norton. (The new Norton. Norton II, if you will.)

First day of class today. My first lecture on Post-Modernism wasn't anything all that new, and wasn't exactly presented in an exciting way. The lecturer was a very fidgety sort of woman. A bit scatterbrained. No Kimberly Drake, for those of you who know what that means. My second lecture focused on Shakespeare and his language. This lecturer had an accent that was difficult to follow, but what he had to say was fascinating. He was basically talking about the fact that no one really knows what Shakespeare sounded like when he spoke. He used instances of off-sounding rhyme in some of Shakespeare's works to propose possible "correct" pronunciations of certain words at the time during which he wrote them. I don't know if that explanation makes any sense... but it was quite interesting.

The overall lecture experience was rather bizarre, though. It seemed so detached and impersonal. I guess I'm just very used to seminars, and love shooting off my mouth in class. Today's experiences felt rather empty.

One of the major differences between the British and the American educational systems is that the British system places the emphasis on independent study and learning; whereas, the American style is more interactive between the student and teacher. I guess it'll just take a bit of time to get used to.

I'm ready to stop coughing and start exploring. And reading, of course.

Sorry for the boring post. Just wanted to offer an update. Love you all!

Books beat shoes--who'd a thunk it?

2008-01-06T13:38:00.001-08:00

I went shopping today. I really needed a duvet cover to brighten up my depressingly dull room, and I found one on Oxford Street, which is basically the place you go to find practically anything you could ever want or (to some extent) imagine. It's about a 15 minute walk from my dorm, which gave me the opportunity to have more of a look around the neighborhood. I found a "Mexican" restaurant on my way down. I won't even offend anyone by reporting the sort of items listed on the menu. Luckily, I also found "wraps," or what I prefer to call "tortillas," at the super market, so I will be making myself quesadillas for lunch this week. And I will make them with mozerella. (I was amused to find that they don't carry American cheese at the market I went to. I guess it makes sense...)

Boring, boring, boring, UNTIL I went to the bookstore.

So I've been having this dilemma about whether to buy my books, or try to borrow them from the University of London library system. The majority of university students here do not buy their books, they get them from the library because of obvious cost issues. BUT I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF. I AM WEAK!

Biggest purchase of the day? Nope, not shoes. BOOKS!

The Norton Anthology of Shakespeare

Persuasion, Jane Austen

The Monk, Matthew Lewis

The Mysteries of Udolpho, Ann Radcliffe

The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner, James Hogg

Unfortunately, those books are only a very small portion of what I actually need. So, I will be going a la biblioteca for most of them. Especially the plays for my Modern Lit class. (The Birthday Party, for example, costs 15 pounds at the particular store I was at. Sorry, Pinter, I will not be paying $30 for your play...)

I must say that it's very comforting to have some books on my shelf. And now Middlemarch has some friends.

Oh yeah, for those who are interested, I will be taking the following classes:

"Shakespeare"

(We will be examining Twelfth Night, As You Like It, Measure for Measure, Hamlet, Othello, Kind Lear, The Winter's Tale and The Tempest.)

"The Restoration and the 17th Century"

(Authors include: The Earl of Rochester, Behn, Richardson, Pepys, Dryden, DeFoe, Swift, Fielding, Gray, Hogarth, Sterne, Johnson and "Woman Poets"...)

"The Romantic Period"

(Authors include: Byron, Austen, Hazlitt, Shelley and Keats)

AND

"Modern Literature"

(Authors include Nabokov, Beckett, Bishop, Williams, Miller, Pinter, Bond, Mammet and Art)

My eyes are going to be begging for me to stop reading by February. I'm very excited. Classes start Tuesday. Woot!

This is London

2008-01-04T07:27:00.001-08:00

The Plane

As we began to descend I looked down onto what appeared to be the surface of a martian world made of cotton and fluff. There were ridges and valleys in the clouds, and I swear I saw what looked to be a replica of the Grand Canyon, though its usual browns and reds has been replaced with soft grey and white bits of fluff where sand should have been.

The first thing I saw when we came though the clouds was a soccer, or football, stadium. And then there was some very regal and ancient looking structure. Would it be too terribly silly to say that I saw a castle from the sky?

And then there was the Thames.

It feels like I have been reading about the Thames non-stop for the past three years. It serves as such an integral setting in British Literature. It was incredible. I saw the Thames, this fabled river that has served as such an iconic marker in my mind for the sort of dichotomy between the new and the old, the civilized and the wild, the rural and industrial diaspora of Victorian England. When I saw the Thames, the beginning of this adventure felt real. But it wasn't terrifying or overwhelming. I was instead overcome with this sense of "Yes." This sense that finally I would be able to see the places that I study. (Though the landscapes have transformed dramatically from the times when Charles, John, Joseph, Charlotte and Jane saw and loved them.)

Meeting London

At the moment, London is appearing to me to be some sort of parallel universe. The people and structures look, at first glance, to be exactly the same as they are at home. Well--not exactly "at home," but in a city. A big city. One might even compare it to certain places in The City of New York, though I am not familiar enough with this place to name a comparable neighborhood off the top of my head. The first glance is sort of where this comparison stops, though.

Maybe, think of this: You know those drawings that you sometimes get on paper place mats that double as children's menus at restaurants? They are really more like puzzles than just plain drawings. The goal in looking at them is to pick out all of the little things that you don't see at first, but upon revelation create something very bizarre out of what at first appeared to be very familiar. You see that a chair leg is in fact a baseball bat. And that the kitty cat in fact has two tails, and that the man standing beside him is not holding a cane in his left hand, but instead the second of the two tails at a clever sort of angle.

Anyway, London seems to be sort of like this in my mind. I am so conditioned to see things in a certain way, and am so expecting of a certain image, that it sort of takes a little while for my mind to catch up with what my eyes are actually seeing and realize that I can't just look left and then right before crossing the street because if I do that I might be hit by a storming red double decker bus--or should I say, "coach."

Freezing London

It is DAMN cold here.

"My first night sleeping in my dorm room:" two pairs of socks, my Scripps sweatpants, two t-shirts, my Cinderella sweatshirt, my puffer jacket, and my pink beanie with the ball at the top. Mix together and heat with radiator through the night.

And yes, my radiator is on.

Unfortunately, the huge window in my room is rather permeable to the biting temperature outside. The window is rather fantastic in the daytime, though. It looks out upon some brick buildings that contrast fantastically to the grey sky. My dad says it looks like a jail cell. It's definitely NOT Scripps.

I don't mean this to sound so negative. I guess it's just all so incredibly different that it's kind of off-putting. I'm really looking forward to classes starting, though. I have this sort of craving for British Literature at the moment that is sure to be fulfilled about ten times over.

I think I hate packing as much as Claire

2007-12-31T02:36:00.000-08:00

So, today, my challenge (and I had no choice but to accept it) was to get that terrifying pile of crap into two very scared little suitcases. After evaluating, re-evaluating, and finally wrestling the two suitcases shut, we ended up deciding that we needed to use different suitcases. (We meaning my dad who was still awake and my mom who was due to wake up in like two hours.) Success was met when the scale in the bathroom showed the two as weighing a healthy, but respectable, and more importantly: permissible, 46 and 49 pounds (the unit of mass measurement, not monetary value.) It still doesn't feel real though.

Tomorrow at 7:30 I depart to a place that is colder, wetter, and where the people talk in a "proper sort of way." (And put their periods outside of the quotation marks.) I wonder if the American accent is thought to be ugly?

I guess I'm soon to find out.

I was hoping to be in bed by 11PM. That obviously didn't happen.

Emotions are running wild

2007-12-29T23:43:00.000-08:00

So tonight, if nothing else, without a doubt proved the fact that PMS and preparing to move to another country are two things that should NEVER be combined. Really. Never. People say that sleeping pills and alcohol are a bad mix– well, let me tell you, this particular combination is a whole heck of a lot worse.

In the past three hours, I have shouted at my computer screen, I have teared up, I have had terrible visions of lost luggage and imprisonment for failing to declare my acne medication at customs (because it is very dangerous and highly addictive, after all) and I have imagined being abandoned by a deranged cabby on an abandoned street in some back ally quarter of London dripping wet from head to foot in the rain. Perfect. Great way to spend one of my last night home, I should say.

My panic met its match when met with Claire's lovely face in my computer screen, fully equipped with a bright green birdie tucked into her curls. The color combination made me very happy. Tonight, while watching the tale end of my mother's and my day-long TLC reality television marathon, Clinton Kelly–the well known host of "What Not to Wear"–was featured on this home improvement type of show and he was telling the camera crew that he picked the colors for his house according to the colors that he looks best in. Apparently he looks great in baby blue, so that's the color he chose for his living room. Claire, did you chose Bernard based on the fact that he looks great with your hair? Because I definitely I chose Tootsie because she makes me look thin...

I need to water proof my beautiful boots.

And blow kisses to all of my beautiful friends.

And spend many moments with my fat little kitty.

And remember to pack my tooth brush. (And the extra two my dad gave me for my suitcase.)

Sunday will be a very long day.

I'm getting nervous. Am very excited. And it's setting in that I'm not going to see some of my darlings for such a very long time.

Pre-departure ponderings, part 1

2007-12-25T21:41:00.000-08:00

I leave for London in six days and I have yet to pack. First I have to unpack what is a very embarrassing accumulation of worldly goods after moving out of my dorm.

Right now my life is in boxes in the garage, in the form of books, suitcases and the world's largest bag of laundry that needs to miraculously get washed prior to said packing. (Thank goodness of House Elves, eh Dobby?) My life is also spread across the United States and beyond: Pieces of my life are in DC, in Minneapolis, in Montana–Litza, what are you doing in Montana?, in Seattle, in Portland where it snowed today, in Oakland, in Italy, and the desert of the American South West where my darling curly haired crazies are enjoying Vegas lights and Saguaro Cider; in Orange County where my aunts, uncles and whacked out cousins are watching digitalized cable in warm beds, and my Nana and Grandpa are either watching their telenovelas or watching the news in a language that I only can only listen to (¡te amo abuelos!); and in Gardena where the streets are lined with Christmas lights and my grandma Raetta is likely curled up with one of her many adorable cats.

With so many wonderful, familiar, comfortable and cozy things here, why would anyone ever wish to leave? Why leave this safe and warm place where I see my cat's tail sticking out from her hiding place under my bed, and my brother blasts hip hop music on his Bose stereo system until my pupils begin to vibrate? Where my mom yells at my dad for feeding the dog cheeseburgers, and my dad constantly quotes his favorite line from As Good As it Gets: "Sell crazy someplace else. We're all stocked up here!"–he then proceeds to laugh. And it's wonderful.

I keep asking myself why I'm going, when there are so many reasons not to go. The truth is, I don't really know what's going to happen when I'm over there. I'm sure to go broke. I know that much.

But, I want adventure. I want a new place with new systems and things to figure out. I want to learn more about myself, and I want to see the world when I'm young enough to dance until 3AM in the streets of Barcelona. And dammit, I will get to Barcelona. And Paris, Nice, Lisbon, Rome, Florence, Milan, Oxford, Dublin, Edinburgh, Berlin, Heidelberg, Vienna, Madrid–the list goes on. I'll be there for five months. Why not just go for it?

I'm a very sheltered person. Very accustomed to a certain kind of life. Now, it's time to see how I will react to a life in the wild... Or, at least the Underground. (When the base you're working from is Claremont, California, the "wild" standard isn't all the high to begin with.)

But I will miss the people I love. I will miss them all very much.

There will be pictures. Promise.