Read me!

A blog is about shamelessly, narcissisticly, and myopically promoting the author, right? Right.

Pre-Interview Pep Talk

Read everything I write so my editors love me for drawing billions of people to their website so I get a job one day.  Or cut the middle man and just offer me a job.

In other news: Half of Columbia University is crossing the pond next week to check out the ole parent country! (England...)  I actually can't wait to see everyone, and, almost equally importantly, know more about London than someone else in London.

Spain! (No clever subtitle.)

OK fine it’s official: I treated this blog like my 4^th grade reading journal.  Once you miss a day or two it gets really hard to take the time and mental energy to really update your teacher (immediate family and sorority) about your thoughts on the latest Cam Jansen novel (trip to Spain). 

Let me put it this way…Cam Jansen was AWESOME.

For those of you who don’t happen to know everything I’ve been doing here, almost a month ago (Weird. Sad. So many emotions.) I took a trip with Libby, Ben, and Alexis—Alexis is studying in Barcelona and writes a hilarious/offensive blog that you should probably bookmark—to Madrid and Barcelona.  The plan: Thursday to Sunday in Madrid, (then Ben had to go back to London to study and be a student and be successful, yada yada yada), and Monday morning to Thursday night in Barcelona.

If my Madrid trip was a program on public broadcasting (weird reference?) I’d have to start the broadcast by paying a strong, wise black man (I always assume that’s what the guy looks like) to say “The following broadcast is made possible by the generous support of the Adam Klaber foundation….and viewers like you.”

Uncle Adam, a high-profile, James Bond-esque businessman (I told you I’d make you sound good!) is saving the world economy in Europe this year.  He manages Western European Services for IBM, so he was happy to show me and my entourage “real Europe.”

If Uncle Adam’s version of “real Europe” is even a little bit how "real" Europeans live, I’m moving to Madrid.  He wined and dined us.  Treated us like princesses (even Ben).  Took on the persona of Justin Timberlake in The Social Network...only less sleazy and more fun.  He knew amazing restaurants, cool bars, great tapas, local markets, and he even sponsored our trip to the palace.  I’m going to type his name several more times in the hopes it comes up on a Google search so that future clients read this blog, note his unprecedented generosity, and feel persuaded by my articulate rhetoric to do business with him.  And then he’ll give me a job after graduation.  I mean, what.  Adam Klaber. Adam Klaber.  Adam Klaber.

Barcelona was okay, too, I guess.

But actually it was awesome.  We took an overnight train from Madrid to Barcelona, which sounds horrible but was actually fine.  They only had first class tickets left, so we felt like the richest of the poor; it was Lib’s 21^st birthday, so at midnight we toasted with bottles of water and Toblerone bars; and then we popped some sleeping pills (the good kind) and woke up in Barce. 

Lex was the host of the year and showed us around and took us out and let us eat kiwis and clementines (in bulk) in her room.  We saw the city and went out for more tapas and were propositioned by American businessmen (flattering?)…all in all a really great weekend.  And by weekend I mean week.  Sorry Lex.  (She had class.)

There’s so much more I want to say about London and Spain and how every major metropolitan area should learn from Barcelona and make locally grown fruit cheap and accessible, but I’ll save my philosophical musings and social justice rants for another post.  I’m sure you’re devastated.

Here’s what you actually want to see…

Instead of writing captions (subtext: I'm feeling lethargic this morning) maybe we could come up with a "create your own caption" contest.  Winner gets a print of the picture.  And my autograph.  Actually, depending on funds at the end of the semester, maybe just my autograph.

PS for those of you not born between the years of 1987-1993, here is some relevant literature behind the Cam Jansen reference: http://camjansen.com/. 

I'm alive.

In case you actually check this blog (Mom...), just know that I'm alive.  Lazy, tired, recovering from a cold, but alive.  I promise I'll tell you everything you ever wanted to know about my trip to Spain soon!


 

RRRRRROME. And by that I mean Paris.

Parisians have an amazing way of sounding like sexier Israelis; they pronounce the letter 'r' from deep in their throat, as if they're deciding whether to swallow it or throw it up.  They gurgle their r's like water, letting it wash down and rinse out the rest of their more boring (see: American) consonants.  I love Paris.

Ok let me back up. 

Before I fell in love with the way the French pronounce Italian cities, I fell in love with Ben all over again because he's the best at traveling.  For those of you who have taken an overnight bus from London to Paris (don't ask, we're poor), you know how crucial securing the perfect seat is.  After spontaneously starting the line thirty minutes before departure, Ben shoved our luggage in the luggage compartment and set the pick so that Libby and I could storm the bus and get the best seats.  In our case, the best seats happened to be the first row on the top level of a double-decker.  The uptown penthouse of horrible European bus lines.

We secured our seats, but--for those of you doing the math--a row of seats has four, and our traveling party had three.  I sat next to Ben, and Libby needed to somehow seem revolting enough so as to counteract the primacy of the location of the empty seat next to her, thereby encouraging lonely travelers to look elsewhere for a space.  Enter Ben, traveling God.  He spent the entire 25 minutes of loading time standing up and rustling through his backpack, physically blocking our row from any intruding Europeans. 

Libby and I were pretty useless and giggly while Ben was saving her eight hours of discomfort.

I took some Dramamine to keep the uptown penthouse vomit-free, so after 8 hours of driving (and a very groggy 3:00 am French customs detour) I woke up in Paris with an achy back and crumbs in my scarf. 

Before I digress on a rant about how beautiful Paris is, I want to digress on a rant about how wonderful Ashley and Matt, Libby's friends from Michigan and our travel buddies, are.  They speak French.  Matt knows everything about Paris AND has a great sense of direction.  Ashley is a photographer.  Oh and they're both kind of cool, I guess.  Needless to say, we struck gold.

They're stylish and great.

 In terms of the hostel, we probably only struck plastic.  There were five of us in a six person room, so we had some friendly foreign company.  The blankets were covered in questionable hairs--presumably not from a person's head?--and the mattresses smelled like very potent body odor.  But we were in Paris so so I'll spin it as Bohemian and glamorous.  Besides, we were staying in Monmartre, the historic district of artists and whores.

With Matt as our guide and patisseries as our rest stops, we spent the whole weekend just walking around Paris.  Walking.  Eating.  Taking pictures.  Marveling at everything from the Louvre to the Arc de Triumph to the fact that French women eat lots of baguettes but still look good in skinny jeans.  (I'm most awestruck by the first and last.)

Although I'm still glad I'm living in London (London somehow seems more lived in than Paris, more charming and worn in), I loved, loved, loved the city of romance, carbohydrates, beauty, and Madeline.

Picture taken right before Matt discretely paparazzi-ed a Parisian Orthodox Jew.  He was excited.

I love stereotypes.

The hunchbacks of Notre Dame.

Reason number #298423908 why my parents should have raised me in Europe until I developed an accent.

The two most beautiful sights in Paris.

This is actually what Paris looks like.  The Eiffel Tower looms over the city like an illuminated, sophisticated Godzilla.

A view of the city from the Sacred Heart.  Definitely worth the stairs.

Nothing like drunken Scotts to remind me why I'm studying in the UK.

The Harvard of strip clubs.

The Opera.  If only I had stuck with high school choir...

Ben kissing the grave of Oscar Wilde.  (It's a thing, he's not just wearing lipstick because it makes his lips pop. This time.)

Who wants to fund another trip in the spring?!  (Mom...)

 

I'm being lazy.

I haven't had a good night's sleep in days, so I'm going to do what every public high school spends millions of your tax dollars teaching students how to do well: plagiarize.  The only difference is that I'm citing my source so I won't get kicked out of college.  (Although...)

I'll let my better half, Libby, speak for me:

Libby's Latest Blog Entry

More to come, I promise!

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!