Busy, Busy, Busy

I haven't posted in a few days because I came to the realization that living my life is slightly more important than re-telling it to my mom's friends from high school.  (Shout out to Simsbury Class of '75! Go trojans!)

So much has happened in the last week.  I started classes, befriended a Danish barista named Simon, planned some trips, met up with Ben, and even went on another run or two. 

Hopefully breaking my life into topical categories and updating you by category isn't too condescending. 

Class: Apparently you're supposed to go.  I'm taking Jane Austen in Context, Jacobean Shakespeare, Forms of Shorter Narrative, and Early Modern Sexualities--all of which have amazing reading lists, mediocre lectures, and charming British 'tutors.'  Unfortunately, my walk to class involves a tube ride and takes about 40 minutes, so if you happen to own a chauffeur service in London please contact me immediately.  

On a less horrible note, I found out that my classes end on March 25.  I have papers and exams until the first week in June, but I'm done before April.  This may have been the most unexpected news I've heard since I found out I was going to have a little sister named Sarah...only this is way better.
 
Travel: So far I have three exciting trips planned: a weekend in Brighton, a long weekend in Paris, and a full week in Spain (both Madrid and Barcelona) in the middle of February.  I know what you're thinking: "Is there any way I could help contribute to Rachel's experience by offering my empty apartment in Madrid/Barcelona?" The answer is yes...please contact peck.sherry@gmail.com to make arrangements.

Museums: The British Museum is great, except when you're touring it with Ben.  For those of you who don't know Ben--my lovely boyfriend--picture a younger, more attractive, but less hilarious version of Phil from Modern Family.  Now imagine Ben stopping at every statue, posing like the statue directly beside the statue, and begging me to photograph him...posing like the statue...directly beside the statue...

Nightlife: There are lots of great things to do in London, but really just not enough money to live like the princess I wish I were.  (I had an embarssingly long--and serious--conversation with Libby about what great, inclusive, warm, and fun princesses we'd be.)  That being said, Simon, our new friend who isn't American and actually kind of knows what he's talking about, recommended a list of cheap(ish) and fun pubs...to be continued.

I think that's it.  Hampstead is lovely.  I'm getting used to the rain.  I gave a British person directions on the tube because I looked confident and well-adjusted and was wearing a trench coat.  I can't wait for half of Columbia University to visit in March.  And I'll try to write more regularly.

Time to read Kafka and watch Keeping up with the Kardashians! (Unintended alliteration.  Equally intellectually stimulating.)
 

Sunny Skies

I'm going to start this post as if I'm not shocked that I actually went on my second run in two days.

Today, as I rekindled my love affair with old-school Madonna, I ran along the Thames. The sky was clear, the air was crisp, and I think a group of 12-year-old boys on their lunch break were checking me out (which I'm average enough to find really flattering). Running is the best!

On my 30 minute route I passed Borough Market, The Globe, the Tate Modern, and at least 12 pubs with lunchtime fish and chips specials.

The Globe Theater

The Tate Modern...From the outside it looks like a phallic prison, but the inside is amazing.

A view of the river from the Tate Modern...I'm one of those little runners now, kind of!

Who am I?

I've always thought that the best way to learn a city is to run it.  (I only thought this because I've never actually done it.)  I'm not a runner, but every time I see an attractive Nike model-esque woman with a graceful stride and a well put-together running outfit I wish I were.  Also every time I look at a dessert menu.

Let me just make one important clarification: I'm still not a runner.  In fact, my grandma is--literally--faster than I am.  But I just got back from a run.  And I've decided I'm going to try to do it.

I really loved getting lost in side streets and alley ways, finding my way to the river, and peering into rich people's windows.  I had the Beatles on my iPod and London at my feet.  That's probably the corniest thing I've ever said.

So now, as I'm sitting on my bed still too sweaty to get in the shower (in hindsight, I probably shouldn't be sitting on my bed...), I'm making a virtual promise that I will (hopefully) be shamed into upholding: I'm going to try to jog my way through London.  I'll post pictures of the parks and pathways I encounter, and try to enjoy both the running and the writing about it.  And then they'll make a movie out of this blog, like Julie and Julia, except Natalie Portman will play me. 

I (obviously) didn't bring a camera, but here are some of the sights along my route today:

The Roebuck...the local pub where I'll counteract my jog.

A telephone booth in Trinity Church Square.

Henry Wood Hall...what "fine architecture."

Borough Market.  My favorite place in the South Bank.

I'm having fun now, but don't judge me if I "forget" to tell you about my "real" future runs.  Just assume they're happening.  (And you can also pretend I look fabulous, and not super Jewish, while I'm doing it.)

Thanks!

I wish I had an accent

There are lots of reasons I get mad at my parents.  Neither of them married a supermodel, so now I have to buy my own drinks at bars; they insisted a TV doesn't belong in a child's bedroom, so now I'm a nerd; they forgot to tell me that boy haircuts are for boys...

But, after spending several days in London, I'm especially irritated that they didn't have the decency to raise me in a place where I'd pick up an accent.  They made a half-hearted attempt when they hired a Welsch nanny, but completely dropped the ball by letting her get married. 

The worst part is that I'm not even picky.   I'd take English, Italian, French, Spanish...really anything except Russian. 

So thanks Mom and Dad.  For years of forgone athleticism, beauty, and--something you could have actually changed--a cool accent.

I'm a hypocrite.

I really hate it when some well-intentioned relative makes me spend 6 hours flipping through landscape pictures from their recent trip to Bora Bora.  No waterfall is that exciting.

But I just can't resist showing you the beauty of London, uninhibited by my own physical mediocrity.

A cafe off the Strand.

House of Parliament. Very serious.

Church.  (10 points to the person who can name it...)

Europe: old and new.  Editor's Note: There's a 60% chance this car appeared in The Bourne Identity.

My dorm.

The Dean's Yard outside Westminster Abbey. 

Libby has never looked cooler. (Outside Westminster Abbey)

The Green Park next to Buckingham Palace.

The queen is really rich.

Westminster Abbey, where I'll get married and become a princess some day.* (*After I marry Ben so that he can give me free plastic surgery.)

Sorry there were no people. 

Swing and a miss...

The brilliant plan for this evening was to grab dinner in Notting Hill and meet some girls for drinks at this "super cool" bar that Libby found online.  I thought the place looked like a gay bar or 70's porno set (see for yourself), but Libby was really pumped, so I agreed.

After dinner (and the calculated decision to only order one milkshake in order to ration our pounds...both kinds), we asked a pizza delivery man where to find the sex lair.  I mean "pub."

The good news: Notting Hill is charming, the sky was clear, we staved off that extra ice cream sundae, and we found ourselves euphorically happy at the realization that we still have five months to explore London.

The bad news: The bar was a warehouse.  Literally a side door off of an abandoned parking lot.  So much so that we past it four times before asking several Muslim men at the Islamic center around the corner where we were going.  (Needless to say, they didn't know.)

When the bouncer finally spotted us, showed us the door, and asked us if we were on the list (I tried to play it cool but Libby obviously laughed, "NO!"), he ushered us into what we assumed would be a list-worthy hot-bed of attractive English billionaires.

It was empty.  Except for a middle-aged black man on his laptop.  Oh and a bartender that didn't speak English. There were dozens of plush couches and weird art on the tall, white walls, but, as it turned out, we were actually the only people on the "list"

We re-grouped and--without so much as taking off our coats--wasted 29 cents on a text to the girls we were supposed to meet up with that read: "Sorry we keep changing plans, but this place is too weird.  Meet you at the pub right by the tube station?"

And so we made our graceful exit, stammering something unnecessarily apologetic to the confused bouncer like, "Oh we're just meeting our friends so they know where this place is...we'll be back... "

After a drink at the far less terrifying Plan B pub, our friends called to let us know they'd gotten off at the wrong stop.  It would take them 45 minutes and too much money to find us.

We gave up, finished our beer, and sang "American Pie" along with the rest of the Brits at the bar (in London, apparently group sing-a-longs are a normal stop along the way to full-fledged drunken debauchery.)

Then we went home.

I guess you could say we're still trying to figure things out.

Libby's Legal!

Although I'm super mature because I've been 21 for a good 6 weeks now, my travel companion (slash love interest, at this point) Libby--an impressionable 20-year-old--is finally able to enjoy a tall, cold, legal beer.

I would say "Cheers!" (in an accent), but that still sounds silly.  One day...

Libby is so posh.

Mmmmmmm

Not even throwing up!

The Mad Hatter, a pub in the South Bank.

Tired, Cold, and Here

I arrived in London about twelve hours ago, and after two flights, a bumpy ride through the city, errands, lunch, errands, dinner, and a brief power-nap to stay alive I only have one thing to say:

There is no way the Spice Girls are from London.

It is entirely too cold for miniskirts, and there’s not a chance Posh looks the way she does eating beer-battered, deep-fried, oiled, salted, and buttered something-or-another (which is kind of all they serve...).  I believe the Beatles (because they wore lots of wool and did drugs to keep warm) and Ozzy Ozbourne (because he swears and eats bats), but definitely not the Spice Girls.  Sorry.

More when I wake up and function like a human. (Disclaimer: This may be never.)

Things I'm Scared Of...

T-24 hours, and right now I'm scared that...

-I haven't packed enough.
-I packed too much.
-My Jewish hair will never stop fighting the humidity, rain, and fog.
-I won't understand "English."
-I'll get really, really lost.  All the time.
-Sweeney Todd is real.
-I'll somehow be responsible for ruining the royal wedding.
-School will actually be hard.
-I'll gain 30 pounds from pub food and beer.
-No one will understand my Mom humor.
-Everyone at Columbia will have the best semester of their lives and realize they don't really need me around.
-My new roommates will somehow figure out I'm writing a blog and I'll be the weird foreigner with the dumb blog.
-I'll mess up the converter/adaptor and start a blazing fire.
-My computer will crash.
-I'll spend all my money.
-I'll lose my passport and get stranded somewhere in Eastern Europe.
-I'll meet Daniel Radcliffe...but he'll hate me.
-The bedding they provide will be gross.
-I won't be able to get Mary Poppins out of my head.
-My camera will make me look even paler than I already am.
-I'll be the unassuming victim of an Ali G sketch.
-I'll be too cold and lazy to leave my room.
-My umbrella will break in a public, embarrassing way.
-People will push me into puddles.
-London won't actually be as charming as it looks in Burberry ads and the Here Comes the Sun montage in The Parent Trap.

But other than that I'm excited.