What a Week

A friend emailed and asked how my week went. "Oh, you know," I replied, "Did my washing, went to the gym, had a letter published in Time Out. The usual." Yes, I had a letter published in Time Out. TIME OUT! The denizen of London magazines, the weekly forum for all things happening in the capitol, the publication read by millions, with only one page of letters carefully culled from probable thousands of submissions--and I, I was published. I've decided to write a letter every decade from now on. Exactly 10 years ago I was published in Vogue, so there must be something to it. Or maybe it's just the criticism: last time it was about an ugly model; this time it was about a writer who referred to an American with a, and I quote, 'Manhattan drawl.' I calmly and precisely pointed out that there is no such thing. Can't wait to see if I have any responses in next week's issue!

So yes, it's been a week all right. Those of you who are avid readers will know that the peace protest went right by my work and that I watched the marchers go by for hours on Thursday, conflicting emotions washing over me. I ended my last post by saying I was going to go straight home, but I wanted to observe the rally in Trafalgar Square. And observe I did, as I stood there with tens of thousands of people of all ages, races, and backgrounds. Estimations put the numbers around 100,000+, and I believe it. I'd never felt so good as when the speaker announced, 'We're not here because we hate Americans, we're here because we hate George Bush!' and the whole square erupted in cheers and applause. Shortly after, I left for the tube station, but when I got there I was astounded to see the parade still going on. So I joined in. I wanted to feel what the marchers were feeling--the excitement, the bonding with strangers. And as I walked along to the beat of drums, surrounded by people blowing whistles and horns and directly in front of people shouting anti-Bush and -Blair calls-and-responses, I felt a surge of energy, of patriotism, of activism. And the funny thing is, I bet those who marched in parades in Nazi Germany felt the same emotions. It's part of human nature to be so moved.

***
My dear friend Esther arrived on Saturday morning (too late for us to watch the World Cup rugby match, which England spectacularly won), to find me slightly groggy from having gone out with my workmates on Friday night. We all had one cocktail too many, and they convinced me that even though my parents are arriving on the 19th of December, I really shouldn't see them until the 20th because I'll be too drunk from going to the annual Christmas lunch. The one last year lasted 6 hours. So, Mom and Dad, if you're reading this--I'm sorry, but you'll have to entertain yourself. I have to work. Hehe--"work."

Right. Esther studied in Reading, near London, so she's a pro and knows exactly what she wants to see. Plus she took me to some places I hadn't been before--now that's the kind of guest I like! In the past two days we've been, to wit:

Borough Market

past the Golden Hinde

by the Clink

the Tate Modern (where we laid on the floor in front of their amazing new exhibit, a giant sun)

on the Millennium Bridge

down Fleet Street and the Strand

to the new Electric Storm exhibition on the South Bank (disappointingly not turned on)

to St. Paul's for vespers

And today:

to Greenwich, a 10-minute train ride from London

to the Royal Observatory to see the Prime Meridian and learn about longitude

to the Queen's House, designed by Inigo Jones for Queen Anne of Denmark, where they filmed scenes from Sense & Sensibility

past the house of Daniel Day-Lewis's grandfather, the poet-laureate of England

to the ultra-fun Fan Museum and its Orangery for a cream tea

past Sir Francis Drake's magnificent Golden Hinde

to the fabulously cute Greenwich Market

on the Docklands Light Railway, past the Docklands all lit up at night

...and back home by 7 p.m.!

Not bad for one weekend, eh? I'd never been to the Tate Modern, St. Paul's, or Greenwich, and loved all of them, especially the last. Greenwich is so cute it almost seems contrived, as if city planners sat down and said, 'All right, how can we make this the cutest place possible?' Yes, it's that nice.

***
I'll be running around left and right this week, especially with our other friend, Rich, getting in on Wednesday, and our huge Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday. To everyone back home: Happy Thanksgiving!

Theresa

Proud To Be An American?

The march against Bush is going on, right outside. It's been going on for over hour now, 150,000 people marching by peacefully, holding placards and waving flags. Flags of Palestine, of Wales, of gay rainbows. Carrying signs from 'U.S. Students Against War' and 'Vietnam Vets Against War.' I liked the pink tank with little kids sitting on top, and the signs that said 'Stop Bu$h,' 'Hail to the Thief,' 'BuSHIT,' and my favourite, 'Axis of Oil.'

But I didn't like the upside-down American flag with 'FUCK' spraypainted on it. For all of my posturing last night when I proclaimed to my flatmates (bothered at scenes of American flags being burned) that 'it's only a piece of cloth,' seeing the flag upside-down and defaced with profanity struck a deep nerve.

It was invigorating to watch the marchers file past, but all the same, when a group of about 60 Asian men (that is, Indians/Pakistanis/Afganis) marched by dressed in black hoodies and some with Muslim caps on, all of us staring out the fourth-storey window felt uneasy. 'They're the type to throw bricks,' someone said. And we all know that it's going to turn ugly later. You can't have hundreds of thousands of people march to Parliament and then not do anything, disperse quietly. Nope. Bricks will get thrown, people will get arrested.

And I'll go quietly home to South Kensington on the Tube, and not say a word. I don't feel endangered being here, but I don't exactly feel welcome, let's put it that way. It's not that Americans are being specifically targeted--at least, it's supposed to be just about Bush. But people everywhere can be single-minded, and anti-Bush can mean anti-American. And usually is. Not on an individual level, mind, but it's very PC to hate Americans right now. Witness my being booed in the comedy club for announcing I was from the States.

The interesting thing is that when I studied abroad we'd get warnings passed on from the Department of Defence about not going to London when there were marches (there was a peace march after we started bombing Afghanistan). I tried avoiding the area when I visited London that weekend, and did feel a bit nervous. Since I'm actually living in London, though, it hasn't been that much of an issue being a Yank. There are so many foreigners that one is just as likely to run into a Frenchman or a Somali on the Tube as an American, and think nothing of it.

But tonight--even though I want to be part of something 'historical'--I'm going to go do my washing and avoid Parliament. No point in getting into trouble, or even just witnessing it.

And it was just as good watching the march. Never thought it'd go right under the window (we're near Waterloo Station on the official Stop the War Coalition map). Never thought I could spend an hour gazing down on marcher after marcher, wishing for all the world I had a camera. No matter--I'll carry with me this memory, along with whatever good and bad associations it may contain.

Theresa

Sunny Glasgow

I'd been to Glasgow once before, during my month of travel around Great Britain during my spring break. Having just left the misty low mountains of the Lake District, I found myself in a grey, rainy, utterly boring city, entirely devoid of culture. It didn't help when I arrived and got into a taxi for the short trip to the hostel and the taxidriver said in a thick Glasweigan accent: 'Glasgow? Why'd you come here?' It took a few seconds for me to understand her, but once I did it may have coloured the rest of my time there. All one day of it. I couldn't wait to get out of the lifeless pit, with nothing in it to see but rain and a National Bagpipes Museum. The only distinct memory I took with me was captured in a photo I took that symbolised Glasgow: an equestrian statute in St. George's Square with an orange construction cone stuck on its head.

The cone is still there.

But this time it seemed as if the city leaders had left the cone perched at a jaunty angle on the statue out of whimsy. Yes indeed, my view of Glasgow has changed.

Maybe it was the weather: it was sunny the entire time; or maybe it was the company: I was visiting my friends Allison and Ben. But either way, I found Glasgow to be delightful, and a refreshingly cosmopolitan change from Cambridge and Canterbury. It has all the hustle and bustle a body could want, with a nice big high street and cute neighbourhoods, parks and trees dotting the hills.

My journey to Glasgow took forever: I arose at 4 a.m. on Saturday, took a taxi to Liverpool Station, the Stansted Express to the airport, and flew RyanAir on the 50-minute journey to Glasgow. Then a train to the city centre and another short journey to Allison's neighbourhood, and I was there, six hours later. Somehow I survived on two hours' sleep and stayed awake until 1.30 a.m. Saturday night!

As I exited the airport I gasped, for a short distance away grey waves crashed on a shore, and low, mist-shrouded mountains brooded on the other side of a channel. I had no idea the airport was so far south of the city, or that Glasgow was so near the sea. I found out I was looking upon the Isle of Arran, across the Firth of Clyde. Yes, that Isle of Arran, where the sweaters come from. Sigh--I love the U.K. You're never far away from somewhere something happened.

Case in point: Glasgow Uni, where Ben is getting his Master's degree in American Studies. But first a bit of explanation about the two: Allison was my closest American friend when I studied abroad in Wales, and started dating Ben (the old flatmate of one of her flatmates, Nick) while at Swansea. Ben's from Yorkshire, Allison's from New Orleans--and somehow they've made a cross-continental romance work for almost two years now. It helps that Ben loves the U.S. (he studied in Wisconsin) and that Allison loves the U.K.--and it also helps that Allison was able to get an engineering job in Glasgow, where, as I said, Ben is getting his Master's. Wherever they end up, be it the States or Scotland, Allison will be able to get a job as an engineer; and Ben hopes to become a professor one day. Are we all picturing smart babies, cuz I sure am!

Anyway, first stop was the University of Glasgow, which I was expecting to be one of those 1960s monstrosities that popped up all over the U.K. Instead, I was astounded to see the nickname 'Hogwarts,' as Ben put it, to be entirely justified. The open courtyards, towers, turrets, and columns rival that of Oxford or Cambridge. Then it was across the street to the Mackintosh House, a reconstruction of Charles Rennie Mackintosh's house from 1906--1914. I fell in love with the colours of the drawing room and bedroom--white with mauve and magenta accents. Mmmmm.... We rounded off our Mackintosh education with lunch in one of the famous Willow Tea Rooms scattered throughout the city, with tall chair backs making it seem as if we were in a forest. Then it was off for the cathedral. I didn't even know there was a cathedral in Glasgow, and certainly not one surrounded with a creepy, but fascinating, necropolis. As you know, I've been in many cathedrals, and this one was very nice--stuck out in my mind for the candelabras used in the crypt, which added an air of antiquity.

After relaxing a bit, we got dressed to the nines: Allison in pleather pants, me in a new satin skirt, Ben in a striped jumper and pink checked shirt (oh-so-English!) and hit up a fabulous Indian for dinner. The waiter recognised me as a former customer--instead of Allison and Ben, who've been there multiple times! We continued the evening with drinks a four different pubs, and drunk dialled Allison and Ben's old flatmate. He still hasn't texted me back...I hope I didn't say anything too embarrassing!

After sleeping in, we had a full Scottish breakfast that lasted the rest of the day. I'd had full English, Welsh and Irish breakfasts, but Scottish breakfasts put them to shame: the usual toast replaced with rolls, with an egg, black pudding (read: blood sausage), a second kind of black pudding, Lorne sausage, mushrooms, and a flat potato pancake.

Fortified for at least the next few hours, we walked around the Botanical Gardens before heading home to get my stuff, and it was time to make the long journey home. Rarely have I seen a prettier sight than when we flew over Birmingham at night, the twinkling, sparkling lights not so far below.


So in conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, I highly recommend going to Glasgow on a crisp autumn weekend with friends. And failing that, if you've ever been before and been disappointed, I recommend giving it a second chance. Feel free to follow my itinerary as a guide to what to see.

Theresa

From Showbiz to the Ball... Just Call Me Cinderella

I know you're all anxiously waiting to hear about the ball I attended on the 7th, so I'll begin with that and progress (degress?) to the other events in the week.

For a bit of background in case you haven't been avidly devouring every entry in this journal: the annual ball at the Lansdowne Club (a private members-only organisation to which my friends Tom and James belong) is a huge event. Each year it has a different theme, this year's being 'Top Hat & Tails.' A white or black tie event, complete with a sit-down dinner, it was everything I'd ever hoped for in a ball.

I spent most of the week running around buying everything I needed. I rented a lilac satin 1930s backless dress from a costume shop (£70!), plus long white gloves. To accessorize I needed a scarf, shoes, jewellery, a handbag--you name it, I had to get it. Thankfully I got to return the jewellery and bag--when else am I going to need it? Never! I'll have pictures at some point, but with my hair swept back in an elegant bun at the nape of my neck (courtesy of Brenna), I looked and felt the part of the belle of the ball.

Arriving at the club I walked into the ballroom to find a huge crowd of people dressed in all their finery, while a live band played and professional dancers took a twirl in the middle of the room. I chatted to John, the only friendly face I knew, as waiters and waitresses circled with glasses (and pitchers) of champagne. Dinner was heralded by a half-naked, bronze-chested young man ringing a huge dong several times, at which point a man in top hat and tails announced that we were supposed to go upstairs to the restaurant. Finally, as we found our table on the map, I felt a tap on my shoulder: it was Tom, looking dashing and tall in his white bowtie.

Tom presided over the table he'd organised, with his newly-acquired South African girlfriend on one hand and his Lithuanian model friend on the other. I didn't think too highly of her looks or attitude--very pouty and uncommunicative in the brief time we chatted. She told me she's been to five or six other balls, and that this one was by far the largest. Cool.

We were seated upstairs in the 1930s themed restaurant, where James took me out to eat last month. I'm amazed that they fit everyone, but somehow they did, and it was fantastic. We had some sort of lobster bisque for a starter, tiny roast pheasants for the main course, and dessert was heralded by a waiter running around the room with a cake topped with sparklers. It was ice cream cake of some sort, with cherries on top, and utterly delicious. And of course we had glasses and glasses of white and red wine to go along.

I was seated next to a group of four friends: Sophie, her flatmate Mark, her friend Hannah, and Hannah's German boyfriend Raphael, who sat next to me. The rest of the evening I hung out with them, and what a fun group of people! After dinner the boys and I went downstairs for chocolate--enormous hunks of Toblerone were laid out on a huge table, and we devoured them. My gloves were quickly stained, and I was teased about it the rest of the evening. I finally took them off so Sophie, Raphael and I could do shots of Sambuca. Why did I need to take off my glove? To light my finger on fire, of course! Apparently this is some kind of Irish thing that Raphael picked up: you soak your finger for a bit, then while you're doing the shot your friend lights your finger on fire and then you blow it out as you stick it in your mouth. Sophie burned her finger, and I was so scared of inhaling flames that I blew it out before I put it in my mouth. Oh well!

Downstairs I squandered £5 on the tombola. It's kind of a like a raffle: you pay money, pick a number out of a hat, and go look at the prizes to see if you'd won anything. Raphael paid £20 for tickets and ended up with a horrid bottle of scotch--too bad for him! He also bought a bottle of champagne that he, Sophie and I shared.

Downstairs, along with the chocolate and tombola, was the smoking room, where people gambled, and the ballroom, which had a nightclub theme. We all tore it up dancing, and although I wished I was with someone who could swing dance, it was still fun. Towards the end of the night Raphael put on my white scarf, which he complemented with a top hat he'd found on a statue, and did Gene Kelly impressions. It was amusing until the end of the evening, when a man came over. 'That's not the top hat that was on the statue, is it?' he asked sternly. 'Uh, yes,' we said. 'Well, do you want to give me £1,000 for it?' What?! Yes, apparently, a top hat like that (it was some kind of fur) costs £1,000 (about $1,600). Raphael joked a bit that he didn't have the money, and handed it over, at which point the man instantly became jovial and asked how we liked it. When I said it was my first ball, he said I have to come back next year: the theme is China, so all the women can dress up very easily. That would be fun! I just have one more point to make: if you have a £1,000 item, don't leave it lying around!

All in all, it was a fantastic, utterly fun evening. Champagne! Food! Celebrities! Well--just one. If any of you watch Monarch of the Glen on BBC America, you might know the actor I'm talking about--he plays Paul. I know you're probably not impressed, but I was. He was even more handsome in person!

As the night ended at 2 a.m., I shared a cab with Hannah and Raphael, bidding Tom farewell at the door and thanking him for the amazing time. It certainly lived up to all of my expectations. And I even have a bottle of sambuca now to practice doing shots with.

Showbiz Redux!

It sprinkled a little as I emerged from the theatre with my co-worker Tim Monday last--but a good sprinkling, and one that reminded me of the words that I'd just listened to, as sung in "Les Mis." What else can I say but that I enjoyed it immensely? Okay--I can say one more thing, which is that if I've read the book I've forgotten a heck of a lot! I thought that 'On My Own' was sung by Fantine, not Eponine. And the leader of the revolution dies--they all die! What the hell? (Sorry if I spoiled it for anyone...) But it was great fun, as I love musicals--and seeing them for free. I'm on a roll--two for two!

On Thursday I hung out with Tim yet again--the guy goes out constantly and has the life of a true social butterfly. He and my boss (the head boss), Deb, went to a taping to Have I Got News For You and invited me along. Hmmmm: do work at the office, or go to a (free) television taping for a hilarious current news show? You know me and how easy it is to get me to do things. Let's just say it took all of two cajoling sentences: 'you know you want to'--before I eagerly accepted. I'd avoided going to other tapings because I feared I wouldn't be up to date on the current issues, but 'twas not the case--I knew everything, all thanks to the free newspaper, the Metro, people read on the Tube. We started off with a standup comice who warmed up the crowd, and then welcomed the guest host (the previous host got fired for snorting cocaine off of prostitutes' breasts), two other guys who are always on (and are hilarious), and two guests. One of them was the highly amusing Ross Noble, a comic who won at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. And the other?

Sir Ian McKellen.

Yep, Gandalf himself. Good o'l Magneto. Richard III.
I got to see him in the flesh, see his opinions on things. My favourite: when asked about the Anglican Church's stance on homosexuality, he remarked that it was the Africans with the problem. 'Africa is very immature,' he said. 'But they'll grow up.' Way to go, Sir Ian! He even obliged with saying 'Mordor' and speaking in his Gandalf voice. When contrasted with his normal speaking tones it was amazing--Gandalf was instantly in the room.

So yeah, that was about it.

From Marketing to Swinging

On Sunday I ventured to Spittlefields Market, the largest in London. Very cool area of the City, and very cool market, with all sorts of interesting clothing sewn by students and artisans. Jewellery, bags, food, watches--you name it, it was there.

Monday I returned my bag and jewellery from the ball (I'd rather use the money to pay movie fines!), then went swing dancing for the second time in London. It was great fun to dance to a live band--I even danced with the current Jive Champion of the World at one point. The only problem was the cashmere sweater I was wearing--next week I'll go sleeveless. But oh, to be dancing again! What utter fun. I didn't realise I'd missed it so.

The Ups And Downs (And Sambuca)

Last night (Wednesday) kicked major ass, which made up for the crappiness of tonight. I was fined 17.50 for turning in a video late, plus I tried to find the UofI alumni at a bar, to no avail. I didn't go to the gym, nor did I go grocery shopping, nor did I go back to work. I've just sat, staring into the computer. And drinking sambuca (from Harrods!) with the girls. Couldn't for the life of me light my finger on fire, which is probably a good thing.

But yeah, yesterday rocked: I met up with James and Violetta, the gorgeous Italian girl I'd met several weeks ago. Dinner in Chinatown, a walk through Soho (the seedy area of downtown London), and to a pub on Carnaby Street, before heading to a fashion party Violetta had been invited to. We were promised canapes and Absolut Vodka-themed drinks, but the only thing appearing were lots of skinny, fashion-conscious girls, so we went back to the pub to talk. Ah, the joy of having a female friend to discuss shoes and lingerie with! Violetta manages the Notting Hill Agent Provacateur and even had their new catalogue--it's not available to the public yet. We were pouring over it as James was at the bar, and the barmen both had eyes like saucers, so Violetta gave them part of the booklet. She's such an amazing person--speaks five languages, lived in the U.S. for seven years, has four half siblings and one full sibling, ranging from 44 to 10 years old, modelled during her teens, worked in the movie biz and thinks Matt Damon's a great guy but Ben's an ass. And she's 29 and looks all of 24! We're going to try to hang out again soon.

And One Last Word on Employment

She and James were very encouraging about my finding a job and told me I just need to network more. I'm going to hit up Tom and see if he knows anyone. If I can find the Illini people I'll see if they can help me out. Thanks to those of you replying about my depressing post. I'm still very skeptical about my ability to find a job, but I have 3.5 months, so we'll see what happens. Scary that time is slipping away so quickly... But just in case any of you know anyone who can help, my ideal jobs are event planning and working with international people. How about planning events for internationals?

Future Plans Include

This weekend, I'm off to Glasgow to see Allison and Ben. Plus I bought my ticket to Strasbourg for December! While it's not as glamourous as scuba diving in the Red Sea (like Callum and Tim are doing), at least I'll be going to different countries. I can't wait to see my friends again!

Lots of love,
Theresa

Why, Oh Why, Aren't We Still in The Commonwealth?

I'm growing more discouraged by the minute. As you all know, I have a work permit allowing me to stay here for six months. It cannot be extended, and it's a one-time deal. That's it. If I want to get a work visa through the same programme I'll have to go to Ireland, New Zealand, Australia or Canada. And while that might be nice, I'd rather just stay in London, thank you very much.

So I need to figure out how to get another job.

Step #1: Start looking for jobs. I'm starting to do this by looking at newspapers. Well, I've bought a newspaper. Still need to look at it.
Step #2: Convince an employer to hire me. Easier said than done.

My friend Allison landed a job as an engineer in Glasgow--absolutely perfect since her English boyfriend is getting his Master's there. Well, if she can do it, I can do it, too, right?

Uh, right.

I started to freak out yesterday when I read the requirements for being a Highly Skilled Migrant Worker. Basically you have to collect a certain number of points for various qualifications such as education (lots of points if you're a PhD), past jobs, and current salary (you need to make over £40,000).

Well, I'm SOL on that one.

Not to be daunted, I emailed Allison, who told me not to worry about visa requirements, but just apply to jobs. She applied to 15 and got two interviews.

But she's an engineer.

So I did what I should've done all along and made some phonecalls to the Home Office and Work Permits U.K., the latter of which handles the actual work permit process. All I need to do is direct my future employer to the website, where they can print out a form and submit it. The guy on the end of the phone told me that it's fairly simple: all they have to do is show that they've advertised the job and were unable to recruit locally--i.e. there weren't any suitable Britons who applied for the job.

Easy, right?

Oh, but here's the rub: the chances of my getting a job in something administrative or clerical (the only thing I have experience in at this point) is rather limited. Usually, the guy told me, the job is based on your degree. Which is fine for Allison with her degree in engineering.

But I'm a Classics major. With a Linguistics minor.

SHIT.

So at this point, to stay in the country I need to either:
1.) Make a friend who can hire me
2.) Get married--yes, married, not just engaged--to a Briton

If I just get engaged, I can stay here for up to six months but I can't work. If I get married, I can work and stay here for two years, after which I can apply to live here permanently.

Or I could somehow change the past and make the U.S. part of the Commonwealth, in which case I could stay. Or make one of my grandparents a British citizen. Too bad all my ancestors left England, Scotland and Wales in the 1700 and 1800s, not the 1940s.


The last thing I want to do with my life is give in to my destiny as a UofI graduate: move to Chicago, work for a while, get married, move to the suburbs, pop out a couple of kids and get a dog. That's fine for other people--in fact, I'm positive that many of my friends will end up like that, and some of my relatives already have--but it's not for me.

So I guess I'll just have to live a peripatetic lifestyle hopping from country after country in Eastern Europe, teaching English. Provided I have certification. Which requires school and loads of money.


Mom, Dad--can I move back home please? Forever?

Theresa

A Fortnight of Fun


Politics and Poppies

It's been invigorating the past week, what with everyone running around with poppies and talking about politics. Allow me to explain:

every year, the British Royal Legion sells poppies in the Poppy Appeal, with funds going to help military families. Everyone buys a poppy to wear; I believe it references Armistice Day on Nov. 11, which interestingly enough is a public holiday in Germany. Guess they really took WWI to heart.

there's been a political upheaval this past week, with the Conservative Party replacing Iain Duncan Smith as party leader with Michael Howard.

It certainly took me by surprise, considering just a few weeks ago IDS was trumpeting lines to thunderous applause at the annual Tory meeting. As everyone at the office is Labour, I've seen firsthand what a controversial move this is: Ann Widdecombe, a famous Tory leader, once referred to Michael Howard as 'having something of the night about him.' Oh, how poetic are the Brits! I asked for clarification: basically, according to Jane, he's 'an evil, evil man,' responsible for many unpopular policies under Thatcher. According to James, a staunch Tory, Michael Howard is a 'star,' and the Tories have gained on Labour in the polls. Everyone at the office, however, says that the Conservatives have confused how nice it is to have someone who can hold his own against Tony Blair at Question Time with someone who can appeal to the masses, which they believe he cannot do. In my humble opinion, Labour is so middle-of-the-road that they've ursurped many Conservative policies, thus forcing them far to the right, and far from appealing to most Britons. The next election's not till 2005, so we'll see what happens.

My Life As a Hostess

I came to the sudden and stark realisation this week that I have something going on every single week through the end of February. Shocking! But that's what you get when people visit and you go places. Speaking of visitors, last week I played hostess to not one, but two.

Wednesday my friend Alex was in town visiting colleges. He has the enviable position of having British citizenship thanks to his English father (who is a pianist at Krannert in Champaign, all you Illini). He needed a place to crash for the night before heading to Cambridge, Coventry (to visit his grandparents), and Oxford before heading back to subvert suburbia by teaching tennis lessons in Naperville, a Chicago suburb. It was strange seeing him in London, of all places, and showing him around. In exchange for sleeping on my floor (poor guy), he took me out to dinner at the Belgian restaurant around the corner. Yep, I'm certainly in Europe--there's a Danish restaurant further down the road. We enjoyed scintillating conversation and fabulous food before checking out several pubs and settling on a traditional old-fashioned local. Since pubs close at 11 here, we were back home and Alex was sound asleep by 11.30.

Swiss Miss...ter

I would have loved to have spent more time with him, but it was a whirlwind visit and he was off the next morning. Thursday night I rushed home and waited for my second visitor of the week: my good Swiss friend Stephan, who studied at the UofI over the summer. It's been nice talking to him on the phone and knowing he's in Europe, but it was even nicer to see him again. I played the tour guide and lead him around Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square, where we enjoyed dinner at Wagamama, a riotous Japanese restaurant chain. Stephan was besotted with the huge sign showing all of the flags of the Swiss cantons, and we made a special trip back later so he could take a picture of it. I admit to passing by and never noticing it was Swiss, but he has special Swiss radar and immediately notices 'little' things like people speaking Swiss German on the Tube.

London Dies At Night

I felt under pressure to show him around like a true professional Londoner (after all, I've been living here a while), so it was embarrassing to get lost getting to the British Museum. Not so much embarrassing as truly annoying was the fact that when they mean they're 'open late,' they mean 'only certain galleries, and certainly not any exhibitions you've come over to see.' So much for late night openings at museums here! We got to see the Rosetta Stone without queuing, and go through a collection of items owned by a doctor who invented the word 'tabloid,' but that was it. No 'Celtic Britain.' No 'Europe' gallery. And certainly no 'London 1753.' Now that I know I'm leery of going to the V&A or other museums when they have late night 'openings.' It just goes to prove that there's nothing to do in this country after 6 p.m. except drink. Which is why everyone has such a high tolerance.

Hereward the Who?

We didn't need to be out late anyway, since the next morning we hightailed it over to Cambridge. I'd never been to the Southeast before, and was stunned by the chalky fields of the Fens. During the Norman Invasion, the area around Cambridge was swampy and virtually uninhabitable, as were the Broads further east in Norfolk. A Saxon named Hereward the Wake (what a name!) engaged in guerilla warfare, becoming a sort of Saxon Robin Hood of sorts and even to this day featuring in different versions of the same story. I thought of him as we rolled past the low rolling hills of the flattest area of England, which still doesn't hold a candle to Central Illinois for sheer pancake flatness.

Oxford vs Cambridge: The Showdown

I've been to Oxford, so was eager to visit the other half of 'Oxbridge,' as it's known. My coworker Jane (who attended Cambridge) put it rightly when she said that Oxford is a city with a university, whereas Cambridge is a market town dominated by its university. We were visiting Stephan's friend Anja, who's studying there, and Stephan thought it would be a nice place to be a student, but I've been irrepairably spoiled by London. It was such a--well, market town! The high street and market, bustling in the afternoon but empty after 6 p.m....I guess it might be nice to be a student, but I can't imagine myself going back to study at this point in my life.

A Word On Academics

That said, I was still vastly impressed with the town and all the colleges, and am glad I went. To those of you unfamiliar with the British system, I'll attempt to explain: for entities like the University of Wales, it's the same as the U.S., which different branches of the same organisation in different cities. However, a complication arises with bodies like the Universities of Cambridge, Oxford, and London, which are made up of virtually autonomous Colleges (of which King's College is one in the University of London). Each College consists of Schools (which I would call 'Colleges' back home), broken down into Departments. So even though you attend the University of Cambridge, it is to the College, be it Trinity or King's or Christ's or Magdalen (pronounced 'maudlin') or any of the 28 others that you owe your allegience, and it is their colours that you wear in your tie and their crest that you have embroidered on your shirt. Your college arranges your housing, oftentimes in ancient buildings. I wish I'd been a better student, or that the UofI had had an exchange with Cambridge, because students are treated like royalty.

That Silly Prince

Speaking of which, we heard an amusing story when punting down the river: Prince Charles attended Cambridge, where he studied Anthropology. His bodyguards followed him around all day, even attending his lectures. After three years, Charles was ready to sit his exams, and his College did the unprecedented move of asking his bodyguard if he wanted to sit as well. So he did. Prince Charles got a third (just above passing); the bodyguard got a first (the highest, and most difficult, mark to attain). So not only did he get a degree from Cambridge, he got paid to do it!

A Punter Took Us Punting!

Punting was the most enjoyable part of the day: Stephan and I wrapped ourselves in blankets and joined several couples in a large flat-bottomed boat (punt), which a guide polled (punted) down the river, regaling us with history and bits of trivia. Cambridge was founded in the 1284 by a group of scholars fleeing Oxford, who were accused of raping a town girl there. The most famous college, Trinity, the third-richest entity in the nation besides the mysterious Duke of Westminster, and I believe the railroads. The Queen rings in fourth. To put it in perspective, though: Trinity has about 4 billion dollars to its name. Harvard has an endowment of 19 billion. BILLION.

Older Than America

Stephan, Anja and I walked around, enjoying a High Tea after climbing the old castle motte (as in a motte and bailey). We also visted an ancient chapel, St. Peter's, constructed in the 11th century, with a 10th century font carved with bi-tailed mermen. I ran my fingers over the stone after the volunteer guide told us it its history, imagining how many people, pagan and Christian alike, had used it to baptise their babies.

Henry VIII's Palace

After dinner, we headed back to London to rise at an early hour and hightail it out to Hampton Court Palace, which Cardinal Wolsey built and gave to curry favour with Henry VIII (too late--he died of sickness en route to the tour). The official blurb on posters is something along the lines of: 'Hampton Court Palace. So enchanting, Henry VIII spent his honeymoon there. Again and again.' 'Tis true that he lived there with successive wives, one of whom haunts a passageway. His fifth wife, Catherine Howard, was accussed of adultury. At one point, she managed to evade her guards and ran screaming down the corridor towards where the King was. She made it to the end before being caught. She was one of the ones beheaded in the rhyme 'Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived.'

Stephan and I walked through that corridor, along with Henry VIII's state rooms, and more boring Georgian rooms of later kings and queens that I find not nearly so interesting. After which, we tried out the maze. I was my first time in a hedge maze, and had we stayed in much longer I might have grown concerned; as it was we made it in and out in 15 minutes, which is the amount of time given merely for reaching the centre. Hah!

'Velly Good Food, Velly Tasty'

After a huge meal at a pub, we came home and whiled away the afternoon doing I-don't-know-what before tubing over to Brick Lane, the most famous street of Indian restaurants in London. (Granted, how many other streets of nothing but Indian restaurants are there?) Stephan and I both felt extremely uncomfortable when we were approached by Indian men urging us to try their restaurants as we tried to read the menus in peace. At last, with us meandering along the street for a while, one guy grew so desperate he offered us 25% off and free poppadams. Well, if that's the way it works... When I take my parents there I'll know to barter with them for the best deal!

Just Call Me Heidi

Stephan met me in a pub for lunch on Monday, and we took the Tube together before he headed back to Switzerland, which I plan to visit for at least two weeks at some point. He has all sorts of things planned, from visiting the Matterhorn, to riding in a cable car, to going to his parents' holiday home and trying out the hot springs in the village nearby. I can't wait! I'll see him in two months, as we're planning on doing New Year's together with some of our French friends who study in Paris. I just hope it comes off--if not, I'll go to Zurich. Oh darn!

Welcome To Paris, 1900, for Halloween

So that was last week and the beginning of this one. I didn't do much else, besides perfect my crocheting, as yet again all of my unreliable male friends kept postponing hanging out. But that just made Halloween all the sweeter! Elizabeth had been invited to a Baz Luhrman-themed party, so she took me, Brenna and Chrissie (Meredith is in France this weekend with her Quebecoise mother). I am still in total awe of how awesome all of the decorations were. Imagine reading a magazine that has an article 'How To Throw a Moulin Rouge Party'. Well, they would definitely use pictures of the flat we went to! From the tissue-paper 'L'amour' on the hallway wall, to the giant moon and stars hanging above the table, to the rose petals streaming down from the ceiling, to the bathroom where 'Truth, Beauty, Love' was written on the mirror--everything contributed to the feeling that, just as the sign said near the front door as you ducked under the red cloth to enter, we were indeed in Paris, 1900. Except for the 'Strictly Ballroom' soundtrack people were dancing to and 'Romeo + Juliet' playing on mute in the background, which completed the Baz Luhrman theme of the evening.

I love hanging out with theatre people, of which the entire party consisted. I did have a funny reaction talking to a guy, who shook my hand in congratulations when he found out I had an actual job. Woo hoo--respect and adulation!

Oh, To Go To the Ball...

As Brenna, Chrissie and I left the party at about 3 a.m., I was a bit tired on Saturday morning when I arose at the crack of dawn (10 a.m.) and rushed over to some vintage clothing stores to look at their 1930s evening gowns for the ball this upcoming Friday. Good news: I found the perfect dress. Bad news: It's £400. So I think I'm not going in a true 1930s dress, unless I can find one to rent... here's wishing me luck!

'Madama Butterfly' for £2

I had to rush around because I met Brenna and her friend Simon at the Royal Opera House for 'Madame Butterfly,' which Brenna had gotten tickets for for £2. Yes, 2 quid! For the opera! And not just any opera, the Royal Opera! The room was magnificent, and I loved being around musicians, as during the interval Simon and Brenna commented on the wonderful 'blade' of the lead tenor. My unmusical ear can't tell the difference between good and bad singing, so I was better able to appreciate the wonderful music, having been told by professionals (Simon's job is as a chorus member at the Royal Opera--he's starting 'Aida' next week).

My Fabulous Existence--And Others'

I'm so lucky to have been there! And tomorrow I'm going to see 'Les Miserables' for FREE, courtesy of Boston University. I've only ever seen one other musical, and that was 'Phantom of the Opera' on Broadway last year. In the second row. For free. What's up with me and my lucky life?

And I keep meeting people with fabulous lives as well! Simon sang backup vocals for the 'Lord of the Rings' soundtrack at Abbey Road Studios last summer. And when I met James for drinks last night, I also met his friend Eric, a film producer from L.A. who was in town for the weekend to record Jeremy Irons giving a commentary for his latest film. Eric's friend, Violetta, was the most beautiful person I have ever had the fortune to meet--a true Helen of Troy with huge blue eyes, black curls, and a fabulous smile. I thought she was American, but no, she's from 'Milano' and lived in the States for four years, which she reasoned was why she doesn't have an accent. Um, no, it doesn't necessarily work that way, honey! She lives in a flat that was once lived in by George Orwell, and is the Notting Hill manager of Agent Provacateur. Anyone fancy any lingerie?

Meaning of Friendship

I love meeting people, but as Violetta pointed out, it's very hard to do so in London unless you have friends. It's different than the States, where everyone is so open and friendly. But with the huge collection of 'friends' that everyone seems to have comes the realisation that not everyone is that good of a 'friend'--and perhaps we use the term too lightly, when all we mean is an acquaintance we're happy to see. The British are much slower to become friends, but once you're in, you're in for life. They don't invite you places unless they really like you, where as in the States it's more of a 'the more the merrier' mentality. So when James suggested watching movies at his place, it goes to show that we really have become good friends.

Spoilt By Kensington

It was fun staying up late and crashing at his place, epecially since this morning we drank tea and sang along to Monty Python songs. (Side note: he met John Cleese, Eric Idle and Terry Gilliam at a gallery opening several years ago and they signed a shirt for him, Cleese even writing 'Cromwell' after his name when James told him 'Oliver Cromwell' was his favourite song.) But when I left, it was through a drizzle falling from a grey sky, and when I waited for the train, it was surrounded by dismal, barren council flats and graffiti-strewn concrete and brick walls. Only a five minutes' journey from Waterloo Station, where I work--a world away from Kensington. I take my flat for granted sometimes, but it's spoiled me. I don't want to have to live in a treeless urban wasteland, across the street from a factory, just because the rent is cheap. I want to live near trees! My country upbringing demands it.

My Upcoming Week

Well, I've certainly written a book, but we're all caught up now. Remember to check out my Halloween pictures (the link's on the right). This week I'm going to 'Les Mis' and finding a dress, shoes, purse and shawl for the ball. Could be worse!

Love, Theresa