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.