Missed Connections

There comes a time in every student's semester when they simply can't read any more novels, write any more papers, or even discuss anything remotely academic. This time usually comes about halfway through the semester and is commonly referred to as "Spring Break". This strange phenomenon usually lasts for a week, but my schedule in London has afforded me a full two weeks off! (It was actually a little bit more because of weekends, cancelled classes, and Fridays off.)

Because of the length of my break this post will come in a series of installments. I envision only 2 or 3 volumes to this epic, however I often surprise myself with my ability to write far more than originally planned. 

My spring break began on the evening of Wednesday, the 9th of April after attending a play called "The Weir" for class. As soon as I returned to my flat around 10:30pm I began packing for my 7am flight, which required me to leave my flat at 3:30am to catch a train to the airport. I know what you're thinking, why didn't I pack sooner? I'll tell you why: because I spent about a week stressing out over the idea of packing two weeks of clothing and toiletries into one small carry on. Plus, I am known to procrastinate when it comes to packing. I think I finished packing - and repacking - everything by about 2am and got a full 45 minutes of sleep before I had to wake up, get dressed, and begin my adventure. For all those wondering: yes, I did manage to pack enought clothes for 15 days; yes, I did have to narrow down my selections to one outfit per day; and yes, I did have to sit on my suitcase in order to close it. The important thing is that I was able to pack everything in a carry on and I thought that deserved a celebration so I ate a whole bar of dark chocolate that night. 

I thought the first leg of my journey would be almost completely stress free until I was actually sitting on a plane, flying high above the Swiss Alps. I realized that my plane was scheduled to arrive at 9:50 in Milan and that my train to Lugano, Switzerland was scheduled to leave Milano Centrale at 11:10. For some reason I gave myself only an hour and 20 minutes to arrive at the airport, go through border security, and take an hour-long bus ride to the train station. For some reason I thought I was superhuman and could stop time to embark on my great adventure. I was wrong. I was one of the last people to get off the plane and one of the last people to pass through customs. By the time I found the bus I needed to take I had about 45 minutes until my train left the station. Maybe the roads will be completely empty because of some obscure Italian holiday, I thought. Alas, my optimism was too far-fetched. When I got on the bus I was under the impression that it was a direct bus to Milano Centrale. I had absolutely no idea that we would be stopping at a smaller train station/events arena before my final destination, and that most people would be getting off there. When the bus stopped at 11:15 (there was a lot of traffic - that Italian holiday I was hoping for must have put every car on the road) I zoomed off in the hopes that my train was delayed for some odd reason and that I would be able to make it onto my original train. In my mind there was still an obscure Italian holiday, only at this moment it was responsible for delaying everything. 

I wandered around this relatively small train station for at least 10 minutes in search of the correct train platform, an information booth, English signs, and wifi. I couldn't find any of those things. After the 10 minutes was up I suspected that I was not, in fact, at Milano Centrale, but that I had gotten off my bus too soon. Finally I found a man who spoke a little bit of English who confirmed my suspicions. He began to tell me how to take public transportation to the train station, but I had to stop him and ask where I could find a taxi. Taking public transport would have entailed taking a suburban train to an underground station and taking 2 different lines on the underground only to walk about 7 minutes to the actual train station. Don't forget that I know very very little Italian. Taking a taxi was going to be much more expensive, but I realized that it was the only way I would actually make it to the train station without being abducted or ending up in a completely different city. My taxi driver gave me a flat rate for getting to the train station (don't worry mom and dad, the meter was also running and the flat rate turned out to be € 1 less than the metered rate. I've lived in New York long enough to know how to get the best deal from a cab driver) and upon learning that I was going to Lugano, offered to drive me there for €140. I was tempted to just stay in the car and not have to deal with any other modes of transportation, but I could hear the faint cry of my wallet at the sound of losing that much money. 

I got to the train station (finally) and got a ticket for the next possible train, which gave me about 2 and a half hours to sit in the station and calm down before my next journey. (Read: which gave me about 2 and a half hours to run frantically around the train station in search of an actual wifi connection that would allow me to tell my friend in Switzerland what had happened and that I would be late. Though, in retrospect I realize he must have already known I would be late because my train had arrived in Lugano about 30 minutes before I had even gotten to Milano Centrale.) I ate a little, read a little, and then found my seat on the train. The journey from Milan to Lugano was beautiful. I passed through northern Italy, saw Lake Como from my seat on the train, and arrived in the charming town of Lugano. 

This is the end of Part I of my Spring Break Saga. I realize I left you all with a cliffhanger and that this part only recounts the events of about 15 hours of a 16 day adventure, but the events of those first 15 hours were exciting (not to mention stressful) enough for me to feel like I needed to share them with the internet. I am now realizing that this tale will consist of way more than just 2 volumes, but this is my way of making up for the lack of posts in the past month and a half. 

To be continued.... 

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.

Winning London

Bonjour mes amis, from the Chunnel! Well, I’m not exactly posting this from the Chunnel, just writing to the World Wide Web from underneath the English Channel. This weekend marks my first of what will hopefully be many international journeys this semester.

Just a brief recap of the past couple weeks:

Classes are well underway and I have made all the necessary changes to my schedule to create what will prove to be a great semester.

I am still getting lost every single day. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that London is not on a grid like New York. I keep looking for the numbered streets and in their place I find things like High Holborn and Oxford Street and Gloucester Rd/St/Ave/Lane/etc. In my first week here I hated being lost. I hated the idea that I didn’t actually know the city of London as well as New York. Back in New York I had forgotten to take a look at my surroundings and actually enjoy the city, and a little bit of that attitude traveled over here with me. I think I came here expecting some grand adventure worthy of a novel, film adaptation, and later a television series spinoff. I wanted Lizzie McGuire’s whirlwind romance in Rome; Amanda Bynes’ discovery that her father was a Lord and a sudden thrust into British high society; the Olsen twins’ – well every adventure the Olsen twins have. Instead, I found myself walking through the streets, lost, like everyone else beside me.

Now, I actually like being lost. It means that I am learning my way around the city. While this idea of being lost is a very literal thing, I am also getting lost in a metaphorical sense. I am losing a little part of myself to this city. Well, I’m choosing to let this city take a part of me. This is really the only way, I believe, to fall in love with a city. Sure, years from now I’ll remember seeing Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and Buckingham Palace, but what will stick out more is that one Thursday night my friend Abby and I wandered into a club and befriended some Londoners and that night my friends and I wandered into a burger shop with the most amazing maple bourbon milkshakes. What I’ll remember the most is my London. I will cherish my personal connection to this city. This is how I am trying to approach all of my travels. Sure, I’ll take the time to see major monuments and enjoy the scenery, but every person who has ever been to that city can say the same. I am looking for stories that no one else can tell, memories unique to me and me alone.

Last weekend I went on a day trip to Oxford, courtesy of New York University. It was nice to leave the hustle and bustle of London and see something a little less… populated. We were given tours of some of the different colleges that make up Oxford University and given some time to explore the town of Oxford and see some of the other infamous colleges of the world-renown Oxford University.

Interruption: I am now in France!

Anyway, my friend Alex and I spent the afternoon wandering through buildings and streets, pretending to be “real live Oxford students”. It’s exactly that kind of silliness that will make this visit to Oxford memorable to me; well, that and seeing some of the set locations for the Harry Potter films. Anyone who knows me knows that I adore the Harry Potter series. I went into the room where they filmed the scenes inside the hospital ward of Hogwarts School! (This room is also the place where Minerva McGonagall – the brilliant Dame Maggie Smith – waltzed with Ronald Weasly!) My inner eleven-year-old wizard waiting for his owl from Albus Dumbledore leapt for joy.

I could ramble on and on about the amazing coffee I found at this tiny little hole in the wall, or the funny things that happened at the club last Friday night, but I will save those stories for whenever I see you in person. I have to save something for face-to-face conversations, don’t I?

Well, au revoir Internet! I’m off for some croissants, baguettes, cheese, and most importantly, vin rouge. (Actually still on the train, but you get the idea.)

P.S. Happy Birthday to Eloise in Coach 2!

A (not so) Little Fall of Rain

Always bring an umbrella with you. Always. 

This is a lesson I thought I had learned in my first few weeks as a freshman in New York, but apparently the memory of running home in the midst of a torrential downpour was just a little too hazy in my mind. I've already had to relearn that important life lesson. This past Tuesday I was about to leave my flat to go to a performance of Henry V (starring Jude Law for those of you care) and I looked outside to see that it wasn't raining. By instinct I set my umbrella down on the floor and rushed out the door to catch the tube. I didn't want to be late for the play. The play was great - I have my criticisms, but I'll leave them out of this post - and after sitting there for two and a half hours I worked up a bit of an appetite. My friends and I decided that dessert and drinks after the show sounded great. Much to my dismay, as we left the theatre it began to pour. Don't get me wrong, I can handle a little bit of rain. This wasn't a little bit of rain. For some reason we decided that we should keep walking back home instead of taking public transportation. By the time I made it home I was drenched and ready for a cup of hot tea, a sweater, and my lumpy mattress. 

Since that night I have had my umbrella by my side at all times. Call me paranoid, but I'd rather only be that wet when I'm in the shower and the water is a bit warmer. 

This past week was syllabus week, so my workload is still a bit light, but two of my classes have required theatre visits every week. Oh I know, woe is me! I have to go to two plays a week?! How will ever live? I'm very excited for the performances my professors - excuse me, lecturers, as they call them over here - have chosen. Next week I'm seeing King Lear and War Horse! The other class I am taking has required trips to a different part of London every other week to speak with different industry professionals. The opportunity to experience my education outside the classroom is exactly why I love NYU. 

I'm going to cut myself off here. I am currently sitting in a café and my cup of tea is almost empty. I'll take that as a sign that I need to get up and explore. I'll be back soon to update the internet on my latest shenanigans in London. Until then, I solemnly swear I'll be up to no good, learning that jaywalking in London is an entirely different game than jaywalking in New York. Buddy the Elf lied when he said "The yellow ones don't stop." They do. It's the black ones that don't stop. 

Cheers! 

Departures and Arrivals

"Ladies and Gentlemen the doors of the airplane have closed, please place your mobile devices on airplane mode and pay attention as we begin our demonstration of the safety procedures for this flight."

With these words, my heart leapt for joy. For two reasons, really. The first, and more obvious reason being the journey I was about to embark upon; the second being the fact that the seat next to me was empty. That meant more room to stretch out for the nine hour flight to Heathrow. I thought I would spend a majority of the flight in peaceful slumber, but alas, British Airways has a very diverse selection of films and television shows that kept me distracted for a majority of the journey. An old childhood friend of mine was also on my flight and I spent a good half hour catching up. I hope the man sitting in 28C wasn't too bothered by our strange stories and inside jokes from the past...

Upon landing I proceeded through the UK Border with no difficulties, with the one exception of not having cell phone service to tweet about all the exciting (and mundane) thoughts I had on my flight. After having my visa approved I headed to the baggage carousel assigned to my flight and waited for my bag. I waited, and waited until the same two bags circled through the carousel over and over again. I maintained the hope that my bag would just magically appear the next time the two bags came out. I was forced to accept the fact that my bag was simply not there when the carousel stopped moving and airport maintenance workers began working on the carousel. As I was walking towards the British Airways office to report my missing baggage I noticed a large silver bag coming around carousel six that looked remarkably like my own. I walked closer to it and recognized the "HEAVY" sticker on it and my hopes had been confirmed. (Oh yeah, my bag ended up weighing about 31.4 kilos; just under the 32 kilo "do not fly" maximum. That's what I get for trying to cram my whole life in just one piece of baggage.) No need to report anything.

The car ride from the airport to my residence brought back memories of my trip to London four years ago and only added to my excitement for the coming semester.

My flat is located in a building owned by NYU in the Bloomsbury district in the borough of Camden. The flat has three rather spacious bedrooms for 7 students, a kitchen, and three bathrooms. It's definitely a comfortable living environment, though I can't say that much for the springy cot I am expected to sleep on. I'll probably have to buy a piece of foam or other soft barrier for the sake of my back and neck. From my bed, however, I can look out the window and see the quiet street below and a park called Coram's fields, which has the greenest grass I have ever seen in the month of January. My classes are all within walking distance and there is a small shopping center very close by with a grocery store, restaurants, and coffee shops - the two most notable shops being Nando's and Starbucks. So far I have really only had time to explore the neighbourhood around me as we have had many orientation events planned in the past couple days, and I have been meeting so many new people (whose names I constantly struggle to remember). I look forward to seeing more of London in the next few days, weeks, and months.

If you have made it all the way to the end of this blog post I would like to personally thank you for bearing with my many eccentricities, and allowing me a space to just share my story. Feel free to leave any comments below. Let me know if you would like my mailing address, and I will send that to you! My next post will (hopefully) have pictures - I am having a few technical difficulties at the moment. I will now allow you to get on with the rest of your day and get back to your very lives.

New Adventures

In just a few short hours I will be heading to the Denver airport and boarding a flight to London's Heathrow airport for the semester. I know that the adventures will be endless, and I hope to use this blog to document a few of those. In the past I have used this blog to give updates on my life in New York, and now this is where you will find detailed updates on my adventures in Europe. 

In the past year I have found that my life motto has become, in the style of Hilary Duff, "Why Not (Take a Crazy Chance)". This semester away is just another step in that direction. I am always looking for new adventures and opportunities to learn more about myself and the world around me, and this blog will serve as an outlet to document my journey through life. I apologize in advance for any clichés.

Check back here in the next few days for a post on my arrival and first few days in London. For now, I say adieu as I need to finish packing and watch "The Lizzie McGuire Movie". 

Wintery Shenanigans

Let me start this post by first apologizing for my lack of blog entries lately. As soon as I hit the final stretch of my first semester everything seemed to be happening at once. Suddenly all of my coursework seemed to double and so did the amount of parties and soirées. Everyone seemed to want to see each other before we parted ways for 5 and half weeks. After I finished all of my final exams and papers I got back in bed and slept for hours. I spent the rest of that week indulging in a little retail therapy and playing in the city that never sleeps. I will admit, it was hard not to hold back on my shopping habits for the better part of last semester, but so worth it when I was finally able to spend what I had saved up in that last week. So rewarding that I’m considering doing that again this semester! 

My winter break was relaxing and enjoyable. I was able to see almost everyone back home and spend some quality time on the couch with my dogs, cats, and my good friend Netflix. All seven seasons of “The West Wing” had just gone on Netflix at the start of break and for those of you who don’t know, it’s pretty much one of the greatest shows of all time. I must admit, the end of my five and half week break was a relief. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed spending time with my family, cuddling with my cats, breakfast dates, after-breakfast coffee dates, lunch dates, afternoon coffee dates, dinner dates, sushi dates, post-dinner coffee dates, tea dates, and every other possible social gathering that revolves around the two main loves of my life - food and coffee - with my friends. But 5 weeks is a long time to be away from New York and an awfully long time to not have anything productive to do. So as much as I miss the comforts of home and as much as I enjoy sleeping in my own bed in my own room with my own bathroom, I really am glad to be back in New York.