The One Where I Thank a Bunch of People, Places, and Things

Before I left for my semester in London a very wise person told me that running a blog is much more difficult than one would think. I knew she was right, but I didn't know to what extent. I love writing and I love the thought that somewhere out in the world someone might be taking a few minutes to read my (sometimes cliché) thoughts about this grand adventure. That someone was my dear oldest sister and mentor, Allie. She recently reminded me to persevere (wink, wink) and try to post regularly so the 7 people back home who are actually reading this can feel more included in my journey. For that to happen, I am going to try to keep my posts a little shorter and more focused so I can post more regularly; try being the operative word here. I think anyone who has kept up with my writing knows that I tend to go off on tangents and rant a little bit.

That being said, the theme for this post is, Thank You. (Warning: this could will get a little sappy)

Thank you, mom and dad for allowing me to leave the USA for 4 months to pursue my dream of living in London and learning in a whole new way. I really have no idea where I would be without everything you have provided for me. Thank you for your unconditional love and support. Please know that I do always think of you and I am always grateful for your presence, even if I may not show it all the time.

Thank you, Allie for paving that road for me in London. You showed them what it means to have a Galoob in their midst so I think the city was prepared to receive me. Thank you for coming out here and spending so much time with me. I'm so glad I was able to celebrate your birthday with you two years in a row and in two very global cities. You are a bigger inspiration to me than you will ever know.

Thank you, Paris for having the most amazing crêpes and baguettes I could ever dream of.

Thank you, Mary and Lauren for taking the time to show me around Paris and take me to obscure jazz bars and bars in creepy alleyways.

Thank you, Jordan for taking me in when I came to Prague and for allowing me to take the longest nap ever on your bed.

Thank you, Bedlounge for having the most delicious cocktails and mattresses and pillows for me to enjoy them on.

Thank you, Borough Market for providing me with the greatest grilled cheese I have ever had in my life. And for the truffle oil samples. And the wine. And thank you Tori, Phil, and Abby for embarking on that first journey to the holy land of food with me.

Thank you, Beyoncé for being the most ***Flawless being known to mankind. The Mrs. Carter Show was one of the best nights of my life.

Thank you, Brandon for coming out to London and playing for a week. I'm glad we had that time together.

Thank you, Shoreditch Grind for those espresso martinis. I don't know how I ever survived without them.

Thank you, Sarah for convincing me to go to Dublin with you. And thank you for bracing the wind and frolicking through the Irish countryside with me.

Thank you, tapas bar in Dublin for having a gluten free menu and saving me from another night of gluten-induced stomach aches.

Thank you, Pret a Manger for always having wifi and helping me find my way home every time I lose my way.

Thank you, Ben and Jerry for creating such a beautiful friendship and for continuing our committed relationship across the pond.

And most importantly, thank you, you for reading all the way to the end of this post. If your name was not mentioned here and you feel that it should have been, never fear, I will thank you at the end of another post in the near future. I just think this post is getting long enough.

With that, dear readers, I bid you adieu. Please do not be afraid to harass me (nicely) in the future if I fail to post often enough. I'm really trying, I swear! Maybe the next post will even have pictures.

A New Yorker in a Foreign Place

In the process of becoming a New Yorker I learned to do things differently. I learned to eat at odd hours of the day, thrive off very little sleep, and most importantly, always walk with a purpose and look like I know where I'm going. I've always taken pride in this last quality. Those annoying tour promoters in Times Square don't bother me; tourists practically leap out of my way when they see walking down the street; I feel almost invincible. Of course, I brought this quality with me to London. So far I have noticed petitioners with their clipboards decide I probably won't slow down for them, people once again step out of my way when they see me strut down the street, and quite possibly my favorite thing, tourists will pick me out as the local who will probably be able to give them directions. There's something so gratifying about the look on someone's face when I am able to get them to where they need to be, bonus points for the look of bewilderment when they discover that I am actually an American. My inner New Yorker has definitely come in handy this semester, but it has also landed me in some sticky situations.

On my second day in Paris I found myself walking down the street, minding my own business on my way to meeting a friend outside the Hôtel de Ville. Like any other day in Europe I walked like the confident New Yorker I have trained myself to be. When stopped at a very busy intersection a woman approached me with a cell phone in her hand and began to point to an address and asked me how to get there from where we were standing. At least, that's what I think she was saying. I'm not entirely sure. You see, I don't speak French. I can say bonjour, merci, s'il void plaît, au revior, and all the character names from Les Misérables. My knowledge of the French language is limited to cultural references, the shared Latin roots it has with Spanish, and that time I played Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast. So when this woman spoke to me all my training as a New Yorker went out the window. I had what could probably be described as one of the most dumbstruck looks ever to be seen on my face. My response to this woman's desperate plea for help was, and I kid you not, "Lo siento, pero... Non parlez... François?" That strange Franglish/Spench phrase I spat out translates roughly to "I'm sorry, but no you speak Francis." Needless to say the woman gave me one of the strangest looks I have ever received and walked away into the crowd.

I guess that's just what I get for walking around with such confidence in my stride. On the one hand I'm flattered that an actual French person thought I could pass as a Parisian, and on the other hand my inner New Yorker was absolutely disgusted with myself for the way that all happened. Oh well! You win some and you lose some, I guess.

The moral of this story: I'm not quite sure. It's probably to do a little more research on the language of the city I'm about to visit. I'm sure not about to stop strutting down the street like the fabulous New Yorker I am. There's something so gratifying about the way crowds seem to part when I walk with a little more confidence in my step. It's like, for just a moment, I am the most powerful person on that sidewalk. It's what I imagine Beyoncé feels like all the time. Besides, every time I part a small crowd there always seems to be someone else a few yards ahead of me that can split the even bigger crowd I have just joined. That's just one of the realities of New York that I carry with me everywhere.