A Ryming End to My Semester Abroad

Goodbye to London, I'll miss you a lot
I'm sorry to leave you but you're getting hot.
I must return to my homeland of cold
At least I'll escape from Flat 2's kitchen mold.

I'm sad to leave you, Trafalgar square
I'm still half convinced that Aslan is there.
Adios to museums, and Hyde Park too
I never even had a chance to go to the zoo!

William and Kate, I wish you the best,
But I must go home at my parents' request
Without me they fear that violence they will do
To my teenaged sister, their Waterloo.

Without my Digestives, how will I survive?
I abhor the thought of living Cadbury-deprived!
I'm going to cry without my raspberry foam shrimp
I can't help but whimper and feel like a wimp!

So long to Steven and our new British friends
I can't believe my semester is about to end!
I'm going to be pining, for without John Makey,
I just know my poor heart is going to be aching!

I'll be missing Big Ben and Harrods as well
I'll even miss our flat, just not the smell.
Though I'll only miss London's dirty streets a smidgen,
I'm honestly sad to be leaving the pigeons!

I don't want to leave all the West End shows
Or the Tower of London, despite all its woes
I wish I could ride the tube a few more times
But now I think I'm about out of rhymes.

An Unexpected New World

There's a verse in a musical by Jason Robert Brown called "Songs for a New World" that goes, "A new world calls across the ocean/ A new world calls across the sky/ A new world whispers in the shadows/ Time to fly! Time to fly!" I have always loved this song. At the beginning of this wonderful semester abroad, I used the first line as the "description" for this blog. I felt that it exactly expressed everything I was feeling about the impending adventure. When I look back a few months at younger, pre-London Me, I'm truly amazed at how this new world sucked me in, and how incredibly sad I will be to leave it. I'm also amazed at how that verse applies in more ways than I ever imagined it would.

When I first stepped off the plane at Heathrow, I was so tired and groggy I could hardly think. It's really a miracle that I made it off the plane, through customs, onto the tube and to Metrogate in the pouring rain lugging my suitcase. Walking up to Hyde Park Gate, I wasn't thinking about how many times I would repeat that simple action, or how this building was soon to become my home, but rather about how happy I was to be getting out of the wet! Everything from those first days is a blur to me. The day we strolled through Hyde Park and the Kensington neighborhood is a particularly large blur. I felt so lost and confused I couldn't help worrying that I was in over my head. In just a few short weeks, though, I had come to truly feel at home in the place that had once frightened me.

I had originally hoped to travel to as many countries as I could while I was here. Over New Years in our little remote cabin in the middle of nowhere, I poured over a guide to Europe, picking towns and sights I wanted to see while curled up next to the fire in an afghan my grandmother knitted. After getting here, though, I realized that what I really wanted to do was to thoroughly explore London. I realized that I could visit other countries any time in the future, but I would never again have a chance to spend 4 months in London, and I wanted to take advantage of that extended stay and really make myself feel like a Londoner. Every weekend I made sure to do something special, from seeing West End shows to going to museums to visiting the aquarium to wandering gardens. I'm so happy I did. I know I'll come back across the Atlantic in the near future and explore Europe, but for these brief, wonderful 4 months I was able to immerse myself in the British culture, and in doing so I really came to realize just what it means to be "American" and, well, "me."

I have never once felt homesick. There have of course been times when I have longed for the solitude of my own bedroom or the cleanliness of my own kitchen or the accessibility of my own closet, but I have never felt a real yearning to go home. I have been able to easily make myself a new home, one that includes 20 other girls and historic landmarks and bright green parrots above Hyde Park. I don't want to leave this new home of mine. I expect that in the next few months, I will be homesick for London. While I know that my Wisconsin home is waiting for me, unchanged, I know that my London home will disappear on April 22nd, with every suitcase my friends pack up and load onto a plane bound for France, Spain, or the United States.

I'm very proud of everything I was able to accomplish while I was here. I have hardly anything left to do that I haven't yet done. Hopefully today I'll be able to get a ticket to "Mamma Mia" and I'm thinking of going to see "The Lion King" for my 21st birthday next Tuesday. I'd like to take one last trip to Portobello Road, and of course I'll be out feeding my pigeons and the little robin that I've found in Hyde Park every day I can. I'll have to overload myself with curries and enough Thai food to hold me over for the summer. I'd also like to go back for a third visit to the British Library, something we did in the very first week that would make a nice bookend for this semester. Speaking of bookends, I kind of hope it rains on our last day here, mostly because it would be rather fitting, but also because I would really like to splash in every puddle on Gloucester Road one last time.

It's funny, but I realize that another "new world" is calling across the ocean. This time, though, it's the world I left 4 months ago. For the longest time, I thought of returning as "going home," but now I'm starting to see that home has become a new world. My experiences here have changed me. I'm more self-aware than ever before, and I look at the world differently. Even though I'm returning to the same place I've lived for 21 years, it's different now because I'm different. It really has become a new world, and now it's almost time to fly.

The Ballet

If I had to choose something to define myself by (which, by the way, I find an incredibly silly notion), I would have to choose Dance. Not dance, no I'm talking about Dance, with a capital DANCE. I just really, really like to dance. I like tap, love blues, am passionate about Latin, and can't imagine life without ballroom. I've been dancing for 19 years now. My very first experiences with dance were when I was 2 years old. I performed a tap routine to The Beach Boys' "Dance, Dance, Dance," dressed in a blue and silver sparkly costume that I think I still have. I didn't discover ballroom till 16 years later, as a freshman in college, but it has become incredibly essential to my life. It's where I met a good number of my best friends, where I learned the meaning of true self-confidence. But I never would have discovered the joys of the Madison ballroom scene without my years of ballet. Ballet was the catalyst I needed to really truly become a dancer.

I started late, when I was (gasp) 11 years old. There were girls in my class who were 3 and 4 years younger than I who had been doing it longer. I was humiliated at first, but I stuck it out. I just kept imagining the performance that had convinced me I needed to learn this beautiful art, a performance of "The Nutcracker" I had seen danced by the Central Wisconsin School of Ballet, who had imported a few amazing dancers from Moscow. I stuck it out for years, forcing my very much unflexible body to stretch and obey. It sounds silly, but making my arms and legs and feet and hands do what I wanted was an incredible thrill. I was at that horrible, gawky pre-teen age, but somehow I was able to master my ungainly limbs and pretend to be graceful, at least on stage. As I got older, ballet got more and more important. When life got confusing or upsetting, I knew I'd always be able to execute the perfect grand jete or pas de buree. Also, performing is FUN! I just really liked it.

When I got to college, I had to give up ballet. I just didn't have the time to keep up as I had. I couldn't practice 5 or 6 days a week anymore. It was horribly depressing for about a day and a half. Then a friend dragged me to a ballroom social and that was that. I found my new passion. But without the ballet training, I never would have been able to learn ballroom as quickly and painlessly as I did. I will always remember my ballet training as giving me the tools I needed to succeed, in more ways that I ever could have imagined.

Going to see "Cinderella" performed last week was by far one of the highlights of my semester abroad. Watching the dancers on stage, I could remember the feeling I'd had as a 16-year-old, dancing on my high school's stage en pointe, my toes blistered and bleeding, my costume itching, and loving every moment. Ballet gave me so much. Sure, it repeatedly broke both my little toes and destroyed all nerve function and permanently screwed up my feet, and caused me to fall and break my tail bone which had to be painfully operated on, and some of the costumes were not flattering in the least and I will probably never live down those pictures, but hey, I loved it. I could appreciate the difficulty of the dancer's moves as they reenacted the familiar scenes of "Cinderella," could cringe in sympathy with each creak and thump, could marvel at the beauty. I will never again be a ballerina, but I will always, always love ballet.

Theatre

I really can't talk about theater. It's just too hard to write about. I tried writing about an abstract notion of how theater is everywhere in London, from the stage to the streets, but it just wasn't coherent enough to really work. Then I tried talking about my own theater experiences, but that just sounded ridiculously self-centered. Plus, it's something that I'm not entirely comfortable talking about, since it was so close to my heart at one time and I really should have continued with it in college but didn't. Now I'm really, truly stumped. Honestly, I've never had this much trouble with a journal entry. Hmmm, what to write about? Well, maybe I'll just write whatever the heck is in my head. Sorry, guys. This might get boring. Here goes:

1) I think it's funny how Brits spell "theatre." Why is it different from the way we spell it? Or, perhaps, why is the way we spell it different? As far as I can figure out, it's just one of those odd little things that makes the English and American languages separate. Weird.

2) I really do think that London has a lot of theater going on in everyday life. Maybe "theater" isn't the right word, but I'm not sure what would be. Let me give an example: Our flat, 37 Hyde Park Gate, looks quite nice from the outside. It's shiny and white and seems not out of place with the the beautiful building beside it. Inside, though, it's old, falling apart and pretty darn ugly. The facade is nice, but the interior isn't. It's like it's a frumpy, tired actress who put on a whole lot of makeup and a smile and became a prima dona. Underneath, it's still the same crumbling old house, but outside it's impressive. I've also noticed that just about every back yard in this city is made up of a dirt floor, piles of rubbish, and a few plants surrounded by a brownish brick wall that was ugly when it was first put up a century ago. The front is usually nice and pretty, with window boxes and lace curtains, but the back yard is nothing to look twice at.

3) West End theater is lots of fun to go to. I don't know what more can really be said about this. If you like theater, you go to Broadway and to the West End. That's where good theater lives. Besides the shows we've seen as a program, I've also gone to Jersey Boys, Phantom, Les Mis, and a second production of WarHorse (with a new and much better cast). Each and every one was simply amazing.

4) "Theater people" are different. Really, they are. Lots of my friends are "theater people." Most of them are wonderful, happy and funny people who have turned to the theater because they like to perform. I love these people. Others are not so nice. Some seem to become actors not because they enjoy making others happy through their performance, but because they like the thrill of being on stage and being looked at by hundreds of people. I really, really can't stand these people. My roommate freshman year dated one and he was the most self-centered SOB I've ever met. Literally everything he did was for his own personal gain and I really hope I never have to see him ever again. The kicker was, he was actually a darn good actor. There's just no justice in the world, I guess.

5) There is something magical about seeing someone famous on stage. There just is. I know it's silly and stupid and morally corrupt and blah blah blah, but everyone likes to see someone in real life they would otherwise only see on the big screen. Seeing Tom Hollander (from Pirates of the Caribbean and Pride and Prejudice) in A Flea in Her Ear was fun, and the man who played Javert in Les Mis is an old Broadway hero of mine, Norm Lewis. In Blithe Spirit, I immediately recognized Ruthie Henshall from her work in musical theater as well. The most exciting sighting was, however, not on a stage. On the way to Mogadishu, I walked right past Mr. Johnny Depp. Yep, the man himself. Turns out he was in London for early work on the new movie Deep Shadows. I don't know why it should matter to me, but of course it does. I saw Johnny Depp on the street, and he looked straight at me. That makes me happy. Granted, it was a "Uh oh, is this girl going to make a scene?"-type look, but still. I'm only human, and I just love seeing people I know about on stage, or people I would normally see on the big screen on the street.

Routine

At home, I have a strict routine. During the school year, I wake up no later than 7 and get up no later than 8. On days I have class, I shower, let my hair air-dry while I eat cereal and fruit, dry my stupid hair, get dressed, and leave for class with at least 5 minutes of extra time, just in case I want to stop and smell the roses along the way (and I do mean that in a literal sense. I frequently make garden breaks). At night I eat dinner early, usually have dance practices or lessons to teach, do homework, read a few hundred pages of Shakespeare or whatever author I'm assigned for English classes, and then read at least a few pages from a well-worn favorite book to give me nicer dreams. On Saturdays I go to Salsa practice all afternoon, eat with friends, then go ballroom dancing till midnight or later. On Sunday I wake up early for church, dance rehearsals, and homework.



Maggie and her "boyfriend" Trix



In the summertime, my bird wakes me up every morning as soon as the sun comes up, so I only get to sleep in on cloudy days. I can assure you, she has no "snooze button." I get her out of her pen and put her on my pillow and we snuggle till I have to get up for work at 7. Maggie is a particularly good snuggler. Then we (and I do mean "we") have cereal and apples (because the bird likes them more than pears)  for breakfast, and Maggie gets scrambled eggs plus whatever I'm eating or anything else her little heart desires. Then I clean up the (giant) mess she's made and we get dressed and brush "our" teeth (Mag always has to "help" with everything) and then we play the "stick-the-little-bird-in-the-cage-because-Mommy-has-to-get-to-work" game and I drive to the greenhouse and stay there till 6, when it's time to come back so my bird can yell "Mommy's home! Mommy's home!". At night, it's garden time with my mother and then a movie and/or a board game with my sister and the "Birdzilla" (whose favorite game is "Life," where she can carry off the little pink and blue people to throw at the mischievous house bunny lurking like a crocodile below the table). My sister usually wins, but then she usually cheats. Bed time for the birdie is at 10, and I usually go to bed around 11 or midnight. Then it's the same thing the next morning, calls of "Mommy, Mommy!" that get louder and louder till I get up. Obviously, my summer days revolve completely around my bird. I can't help it: I love her and she's a smart little ball of feathers who will not be ignored. She has seen me through some truly nasty times, and even though she's certainly a handful to take care of (think a super-smart 3-year-old with wings), making sure she's happy keeps me happy.

Here in England, I really have no routine. I go to bed at different times every night, which dictates when I get up in the morning. I usually wake up between 6 and 7 out of habit, but I try to at least stay in bed til I get 6 hours in. I know it's not good, but I kind of like having no set routine. Maybe it's because at home I have a little feathered 3-year-old to take care of, as well as an acre's worth of gardens, a pond filled with expensive fish I do not want dying on me, family to keep happy, and friends to socialize with. Here I have no responsibilities at all. I can get up when I want, eat when I want, go to bed when I want. It's a nice little vacation from the work I have at home. As long as I feed myself, shower, go to class, do homework and get at least some sleep, I've got nothing to worry about. It's nice, but I do admit, I miss the responsibilities of home. Having so much to do each day is a real pain, but I like knowing that I'm needed, even if only by a little white bird. Yesterday I learned that apparently makes me a freak. It's a sad lesson to learn from an unexpected source, but oh well. I've decided I just don't care. I need to be needed. Maggie fits perfectly into my life and I owe her more than anyone could imagine. Somehow, she found me and the two of us muddle through life pretty well together. So what if my daily routine is a little different than most people's. I can guarantee that life is far more fun with a goofy little bird around.

While I'm not at all homesick here in London, I know it will be nice to get back to my gardens, my sister, my family, and the little bird who calls me Mommy.

Birdzilla destroying a doughnut

Music

 I love music. Yet somehow, I find myself unable to write about it. I don’t know why exactly, but every time I’ve started my journal, I’ve hated it. I have deleted four starts now. Maybe this one will be next, or maybe I’ll just decide if I can’t come up with anything after five tries I may as well give up.

Music is in literally every part of my life. I grew up learning little folk songs from my great grandmother, semi-inappropriate old ditties from my grandfather, rock from my father and everything else from my mother. I loved going to church so I could sing hymns. My sister and I did the best Disney voice-overs for our favorite movies. The first time I really sang in public was when I was in 6^th grade. I sang “Part of Your World” for a school talent contest and won. It was such a good feeling. When I got to high school, my choir teacher decided I was to be one of her “projects”: basically, I was going to be a darn good singer, or else. I learned quickly. The first song I performed at a competitive level was an Italian piece called “Se tu m’ami.” It was easy and I received highest honors. I had gotten the bug and gotten it bad.

My freshman year of high school, I jumped into the musical scene. I was chosen to play Chava, daughter of Tevya in “Fiddler on the Roof.” I was the only freshman in the cast. The next year I played Guenevere in “Camelot” at age 15. The next year it was Sharon in “Finian’s Rainbow,” then the promiscuous “Mae” in a horrible show called “The Pajama Game” and Rapunzel in Sondheim’s crazy difficult “Into the Woods.” Meanwhile, I started singing more and more competitively. In the state’s Solo and Ensemble competition, I was never given a score lower than a first place with honors. I also started singing outside of school, for community events, for church, and for anything else I could find. A friend of mine was a piano genius, literally one of those people who are born to play an instrument, and we would go wherever we could to perform.

When I got to college, I thought I’d keep singing, but things didn’t work out that way. I joined several choirs my first year, which was good though I longed for solo work. My second year, I developed a horrible infection in my throat right before a major concert with the UW Choral Union. I was told to rest for awhile till the doctors could fix me. I performed anyway, but that was the last time I sang in front of an audience.

I’m healed now and I think I’d be able to sing with a choir again. When I get home I’ll start reconditioning my voice to reclaim as much of my range as I can. As a coloratura soprano, I doubt my scarred throat will ever be able to soar to the notes I was once capable of, but at this point, I’ll take what I can get.

Meanwhile, since I haven’t been able to sing for an audience for a year, my head has been bursting with melodies. I am never without a song or two playing between my ears, and I hate having to repress the music in my head. At home I just let it out, and between my musically-inclined mother, father and sister, there is always a lot of opposing music happening in our house. Even the bird joins in.

Here in London, I miss being able to sing out loud. I want to sing in the shower, sing while I check my email, sing while I cook breakfast, sing while I get dressed. Instead I keep in inside, the socially acceptable option, but if I happen to leak a bit of a melody now and then, I’m sorry. I can’t always keep them in.

Mind the Gap

"MIND THE GAP."

Getting off the tube and lugging my big blue backpack towards Heathrow airport, I didn't realize how much I would come to miss those familiar words pronounced with such authority in a lovely English accent in the coming days. I was on my way to Italy, and I was too sick and too excited to worry about actually planning or thinking ahead. I didn't realize just how unprepared for a sojourn into a foreign country I was.

Most of the time, before I plan a week and a half in another land I do some research. I like to look up such topics as the local language, cuisine, transportation, customs, and oh yeah: the sights I intend to see. Instead, my friend and I spent the days before the trip in a feverish haze, snuggling a box of kleenex and carrying on a love affair with Nyquil and Tylenol PM. Come the judgement day, we had no plans, no map, and not even a guide book. We did, however, have plane tickets, backpacks, booked hostels and a whole jar of precious American peanut butter, so we figured we'd be ok. We bought a guidebook that first day, got a wonderful map from our hostel, and bought bread and jelly at the train station. Though we didn't have plans, we were game for an adventure, and everything turned out just fine in the end. We had a wonderful trip...but...

But. That's such a frightening little word. So insignificant, and yet so crucial. We loved Italy, but, and this is going to sound bad: we didn't love the people, and they didn't seem to love us. Except for the young men, of course. Before leaving, we'd been warned about Italian men, but I guess we thought it wouldn't be so bad. It was. I figured, the Italians can't be all that different from the English. I'd heard that most Italians in Rome and Florence speak English or Spanish or at least understand a bit of Spanish, so I thought we'll be fine. I never thought to look up useful phrases in Italian, things like "Where's the bathroom?" or "I'll have the chocolate." I knew the word for "thank you" and I thought I was all set. Wrong.

Getting out of the airport, Amanda and I saw a sign saying "Uscita/Exit." We joked that now we now knew three words in Italian, "Grazie," "Pizza," and "Uscita." We laughed then, but later in the trip I was so happy to know that word. In a place where every word is foreign, it's helpful to know the way out. It got me out of grocery stores and tourist shops and crowded and horrifically confusing train stations. We didn't know it then, but "Uscita" was probably one of the most important words we could have learned. Unhappily for us, there were a whole lot of other words and phrases we wish we had known. Words and phrases like "what is that" and "where is it" and "stop it now or I'll kick you" and "hey, I may be American but I'm not stupid." Most of the time everything was just fine. We learned that most people would at least serve us if we pointed and gestured and smiled. But. Some wouldn't. You'd think they'd be more friendly when you're trying to pay them for their goods. We learned to only enter shops with clearly posted prices and friendly-looking employees. We aren't exactly mean or creepy-looking so we usually managed to get by...until the day we decided to buy train tickets to Florence.

I can't repeat the whole story here, or I will start yelling and hyperventilating. The short story: the first man behind the desk at Termini sold us the wrong tickets. I don't know why he did, if it was an honest mistake or an intentional error. Unfortunately, I strongly suspect the latter. We had asked for "Florence Santa Maria Novella Station," which doesn't exactly sound at all like "Stazione Rifredi," which is a station used to connect Rome to Florence trains with trains going to Milan. Thank goodness we realized the problem before we left the station. We waited another half hour in line and got stuck with a woman who was so violently ill I don't want to even describe her or her condition. Next we went to a woman who I can only describe as the nastiest person I've ever met. She cancelled our old tickets without asking and booked us tickets that were 3 times as expensive as the ones we had asked for, then refused to give us back the old ones or let us leave without paying for the painfully expensive tickets. I have never been so angry in my life. She pretended to not speak enough English to understand us, but her name tag declared that she was fluent in both Italian and English. Finally, we found a customer service line, left her, and were able to cut our losses and only lose 9 Euro each just because that woman was having a bad day and refused to help the two American students. Had we been in an English speaking country where we were familiar with the customs, she never would have been able to get away with it. When I demanded her manager she would have had to produce him, instead of claiming to not understand. Her treatment left me angry and helpless, which are not feelings I am comfortable with.

When I left the Heathrow tube station, I didn't understand just what that old, oft-repeated phrase was telling me: mind the gap. I didn't yet realize that the gap I was about to so carelessly jump straight into was one dividing culture and language, thrusting me into an unknown land that I was entirely unprepared for. Returning to London, I have never been more aware of this gap. From this point on I will mind it with the respect it deserves.

Fashion

Ironically, here in fashion-forward London, I miss fashion. It's all thousands of miles away, tucked into a closet in the frozen Northwoods of Wisconsin. Well, mine is at least. The Londoners seem to be doing pretty well for themselves. All around me are beautiful people, or at least people made more beautiful by the clothes they put on. I see swirls of color and pattern, mixtures of textures and fabrics and jewellery everywhere: on the streets, in the cafes, in museums, in the tube, everywhere! Women wear bright lipstick and improbably large earrings and mile-high heels to the grocery store. TO THE GROCERY STORE!

I've never been particularly concerned with being strictly fashion-forward, as long as I avoid being fashion-backward, or worse, fashion-inside-out. Lucky for me, I have a sister who loves to dress me like a human doll. She likes nothing better than to go shopping for me. No, I don't mean shopping with me. I mean, shopping FOR me. Sure, I like going myself, but she gets such joy from choosing my wardrobe, and I hate to deprive her of so simple a pleasure. I always tell her I have veto power. Ha. If she wants me to wear something, I wear it.

At home I love dressing up. My favorite night of the week is the night I go formal ballroom dancing. There is no better feeling than wearing a particularly swirly skirt while waltzing, or better yet, Viennese waltzing with a skilled partner. Dancing made me add skirts to my wardrobe. I discovered just how amazing they are. Men don't know what they're missing. I have skirts in every color and every pattern and every material imaginable. I love bold prints, but sometimes a classic black satin is just what I need to execute a truly wonderful tango. It's strange how much clothing changes an experience. When I wear the black satin skirt, I don't feel shy or embarrassed; I can become Roxanne.

I don't know what I was thinking when I came to London. I brought with me only one smallish suitcase for my entire semester-long life. I brought only one pair of boots and two pairs of walking shoes and one pair of going-out heels. I brought 4 pairs of jeans and one skirt. I have 1 nice dress, 2 tshirts, 3 tanks, 3 sweaters and 5 long-sleeved ts. What was wrong with me?! I brought nothing nice to wear! I thought I could get by with plain black tshirts and jeans. I didn't even bring any flats. Obviously I was suffering a bout of mental illness when I packed. It made sense at the time, but now I am stretching the limits of patience, trying to live without color or pattern or just nice clothes. At least I brought 40 days worth of undergarments and socks. Brilliant.

Slowly, I am filling out my pathetic closet. The mismatched hangers in my solitary cabinet are gradually being filled. One of these days I'll be able to go a week without cringing at my minuscule options. Hopefully that day will come before I have to pack it all up and cross the Atlantic.

Assignment 4: Food

Meal 1: Cadbury Caramel and a granola bar

Meal 2: Toast (qty2) with butter, apple slices and peanut butter, a banana

Meal 3: Grilled gouda cheese sandwich, an orange, Mars bar

Snack A: Granola bar in class

Snack B: Rees’s snack bar, dried fruit, later in class

Meal 4: Sausage, green beans

Snack C: Chocolate heart

Meal 5: Big bowl of rosemary and lemon rice, dark chocolate cashew cluster from my Grandmother

Snack D: Jelly babies

Meal 6: Toast (qty 2) with butter, banana, gouda cheese

Snack E: Chocolate

Yes, this is a list of all the food I have eaten today. No, I did not make it up. Actually, I omitted several smaller snacks, like a handful of cereal between Meals 1 and 2, and a Milky Way between Meal 5 and Snack D. There also may have been Jelly babies who got eaten throughout the day. Oh, and an extra  Mars bar between Snacks A and B. I really am not inventing this, though I kind of wish I was. I knew I’d been eating way more than I probably should be, but listing it like this…wow. Just, wow.

I thought I ate a lot at home, but this list is more than even I should be consuming in 24 hours. It’s really quite embarrassing, or it should be. Instead, I’m a little proud of it. I think I may eat more than anyone else in the building, perhaps even including some of the males. Maybe we should have medals, or trophies.

Where does the food go?! I don’t think I’m gaining weight at all, let alone as much as that list would suggest. Considering the amount of food going in to my mouth, I should probably be rolling down the stairs every day. Scratch that. There’s no “probably” involved. I should be freaking huge. I’m glad I’m not, but really, this is ridiculous!

My only hypothesis is that living here produces more activity than at home. Well, duh. Just going to class is a 20-minute walk. But I don’t think it’s just the actual physical activity level. At home I walk all over the place. I don’t even ride a bike, preferring to go to and from class on foot. I also walk to my dance practices several times a week before proceeding to wring every last drop of energy from my body in the form of a salsa or a foxtrot or a waltz. Then I walk back home. I’m a very active person. I like to move all the time, so when I study or read or even watch a movie, I’m usually tapping out a beat with my foot, or stretching my muscles. I do eat a lot at home, and my friends and family make fun of me for it, but I shudder to think of what they would say if they saw that list.

I think that here, everything requires just a little extra effort. Even going to the grocery store takes more energy here than it does at home, because as I walk down Gloucester Road, I can’t stop looking up at buildings or swerving to avoid little dachshunds and yorkies, or crossing the street to get a better look at something that might be interesting. In the store, I cover easily twice as much ground, trying to find the seemingly common items on my list. Cooking involves a multitude of little extra steps around the kitchen, searching for pots and pans, or washing dishes. Just moving around our flat takes energy. I’m a particularly forgetful person, so sometimes I need to walk the long hallway between bedroom and common room many times before I can settle down to whatever task needs completing.

This is my excuse for that horrible list: life here takes more energy, and so I eat more calories. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Meanwhile, I need to add Snack F: Banana.

Assignment 3: 37 Hyde Park Gate

The flat at 37 Hyde Park Gate has become my home, but out of necessity, not out of love. I suppose it’s perfectly adequate: I can live relatively comfortably. I don’t mind sharing with 20 other girls, despite the occasional annoyances that come with cramming so many individuals into a narrow, confined space. The living areas are comfortable, when they’re warm enough to be habitable. Most of the door handles and light switches usually work. None of the cracks in the plaster leak water, at least not in any important parts of the building. When the fridges spontaneously turn off, we usually find out before much gets spoiled. I have gotten used to the strange noises that occur when the cold water is turned on, and I can generally jump out of the way in time to avoid being frozen or scalded when the shower gremlin decides to get playful.

Really, though, it’s a fine flat. The location couldn’t be better, and it’s functional, and I’ve become comfortable here. Flying back from Dublin last weekend, I caught myself thinking, I can’t wait to get home. Home. When did I start thinking of London as home? It’s a wonderful thing, changing homes, but I can’t help but compare this new home to my old one, the one that’s waiting for me an ocean away. That home is a fortress of brick and stone, designed by my mother to be perfect. From the Tudor-style front to the gothic windows overlooking the lake, from the copper roof accents to my custom-built koi pond, that house is perfect. I was just getting ready to finish middle school when we broke ground in 2004. The old house and land had belonged to my grandparents for 50 years. They needed to downsize, and we needed to upsize from the lakeside flat my parents had built into their downtown office space, so we traded. We knocked down the old red house my mother and uncle had grown up in, leaving the floor and the fireplaces. The old house was transformed in a year into a beautiful customized space, a home my mother had been dreaming of for decades, piecing together like a collage. She picked up ideas and objects in Europe, poured over books and magazines for inspiration, and just made up what she couldn’t find. The results are incredible, a building that is more than a building, a home I am proud to call home.

Even the yard is perfect. My grandmother began most of the gardens years ago, and my grandfather carted in wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of black soil from Price County, where the best dirt grows. In the front, five oak trees grow from a single base right in the center of the property. My grandfather, who knows about such things, believes that a century ago, when the land was a farm, a big red oak tree had been cut down to a stump, and from that stump had arisen five little sprouts. Today those little sprouts are huge trees. A long time ago, my grandfather carved a sign to hang at the mouth of the driveway: Five Oaks. Over time many gardens have sprung up on our property, tended first my grandmother and great grandmother, then by my mother, and now by me. Nothing brings me more joy than playing in the dirt of my gardens. I could never imagine life without mud and trowels and worms and wonderful, growing plants…until now. 

An ocean away from my gardens, I miss them. Here, I have nothing to weed, nothing to water, nothing to tend. I have seriously considered passing myself off as a legitimate gardener in Hyde Park across the road, but I have a feeling the Queen would frown on such activity. I tried to content myself with wandering through the park and other gardens as much as possible, but looking at other people’s gardens just isn’t the same. There is no sense of pride or accomplishment. Finally I gave in. I found a little corner greenhouse when I was lost in Camden Town a few weeks ago, and purchased a bright pink cyclamen. I watched every window in 37 Hyde Park Gate before deciding on the perfect ledge for my precious plant. The kitchen was far too dark, and the East windows all had heaters below, bad conditions for a flowering cyclamen, which needs very cool air and dry soil while it flowers. Eventually I decided on a low window where the light isn’t quite perfect, but at least there’s no blasted space heater to ruin the blooms. Unfortunately for me, the maids decided to "help" me tend my little plant, help that was not only unwanted but also detrimental to my poor cyclamen. At first I couldn’t understand why the once hot pink flowers were turning white and deformed, but then I realized that the maids had decided to “help” me by watering my little plant vigorously every day. The poor thing was drowning! A polite note has halted the flood, so I can only hope my cyclamen will perk up soon.

The little cyclamen has made me feel so much more comfortable in this flat that is otherwise so devoid of anything I would associate with a home. It gives me not only the joy of it’s pretty flowers, but also the satisfaction that only comes from tending a living thing. Silly as it sounds, I don’t think 37 Hyde Park Gate would be a real home to me without the pink cyclamen. I’ve decided that I just can’t leave my little charge here when I return home, so my plan is to stress the poor thing horrifically with heat and darkness in the weeks before I pack, sending it into forced hibernation. Cyclamens are wonderful plants that can retreat into their bulb-like tubers to wait out bad times, sprouting again when the conditions are perfect, reminding me of the great oaks growing in front of my Wisconsin home. Unlike the oak tree, when my cyclamen hibernates, I'll be able to slip it into my pocket and carry it across the Atlantic, where it will grow next to my other cyclamens, in the bay window overlooking the five oaks.

Assignment 2: React to an overheard phrase

Ladies on the tube:

“Why would anyone go to a salsa club? It’s just an excuse for shaking and thrusting.”

I find music in everything. From morning to night, there is music playing between my ears, even as I dream. The music colors the dreams. I find melody in the cars rushing by, pick out the harmonies of little birds in the trees, and hear rhythm in the blaring of sirens. I wage a constant battle with myself to keep the music inside of me, or I would sing along with the birds and the fire trucks. I can’t imagine a silent world.

            Dancing is physical, visual music. It’s taking the melody and making it mine, turning a sound into a sight. Choreography is a carefully constructed song. Each step must fit next to its brothers and sisters perfectly, just as each individual note must combine to create a song. A dancer then becomes the musician, the artist who reads the notes and manifests the beautiful music created by the composer.

            But some dancing is different. Some dancing has no script, no plans, no restrictions besides the music. The dancer is not constrained to strict steps. This is where a dancer becomes an artist. There is great freedom in dance without choreography. This is the dance that I have come to love, dance that doesn’t restrict me with steps or style or shoes. I can make the music my own, and the audience doesn’t matter.

            Salsa has become my drug, something I overdose on repeatedly, but keep coming back for more. I can turn off my brain and follow the music and my partner and forget about the world. All I need to know is where the floor is. I never have to wonder what comes next, because it just comes. There is a wonderful relationship between song and steps, feet and floor, partner and partner.

            The best is salsa rueda. In the circle, there are not just two individuals experiencing the dance, but many. The steps are called and not free, but I can interpret them as I will. It’s an interesting combination of choreography and freeform. At each command of “Da me,” the pattern of the circle changes, and I am given the chance to dance with a new partner, to create a new chapter in the dance. Over and over and over again I hear the call, and the wheel turns, like a great human kaleidoscope, constantly changing, but with all of us in sync. To be a part of such a spectacle is exhilarating. To know hundreds of calls and execute them seamlessly gives me a feeling of accomplishment. When I’m in the circle, I only need to listen for the command and let my body react to the call and the music and the lead from my partner. Nothing else matters.

            Once salsa is in your blood it never leaves. I know that the moment I hear the music I can’t help dancing to it. I hate hearing salsa in the grocery store, because my hips won’t stay still. It calls, and it wants me to follow. I can’t help but take the lead the music gives me, just as I would take a lead from a partner. I am a born follow. In the world of dance, this is not an insult. The follow is much harder than the lead, though we never tell the leads that. It would hurt their pride. To follow, I must adapt myself constantly but not consciously. I must be prepared for anything. It’s like walking blind into a street. If you can’t listen to the cues around you, you won’t survive

            Salsa is not about thrusting or shaking. Salsa is about expressing the inexpressible. It’s about visually representing all the good things in life: passion, joy, art.

Assignment 1: Observe a moment

As I wandered around the Natural History museum looking for something or someone to write about, I was stumped. I observed many people on my walk around the museum, but couldn't decide on any one to write a blog entry about. I watched a child and his parents for awhile, hoping for a tantrum or a funny British phrase, or a tender moment, but they gave me nothing. The kid just seemed politely interested in the creepy crawly bug room, and his parents seemed content to watch from afar. Boring. Personally, I wasn't a big fan of the creepy crawly room, especially since it housed no actual live creepies. I love bugs and spiders and such, but I have no interest in watching a computer screen show me dramatic footage of a scorpion stalking its prey. So, I moved on to the bird room.

In the room full of dead birds, an old man sat sketching in front of a display case, his art supplies arrayed in a great fan around his chair. I thought, perfect, now I have someone to write about. I'll invent for him a story of a childhood sweetheart who had just passed on after 50 years of marital bliss, and decide he's seeking solace by drawing in the bird room. I imagined him putting the finishing touches on a rendering of the noble-looking owl in the case front of him, with its big yellow plastic eyes, or capturing the strength in the ostrich's mighty stance, or the endurance of the penguin whose artificial gaze never wavered. I saw a great irony in my invented story, the old man escaping pain by drawing life, which was being represented by a room full of mouldering feathers and plastic eyeballs and styrofoam molds of birds that had once flown free. As I approached the man to spy on his artwork, I decided that my epic love story set in the bird room would never work. The man was sitting in a room full of every beautiful and majestic bird in the world, birds of paradise, white peacocks, lovely parrots, and literally hundreds of exotic hummingbirds, and what was he sketching? A chicken. I left the bird room and moved to the dinosaurs.

Next I considered writing about a couple I encountered in the dinosaur room. The entrance to the room is a bit dim, I assume to create the proper awe-inspiring atmosphere for the room that houses reassembled dino bones. As I was running about like a small child- I LOVE dinosaurs, and visiting the prehistoric exhibits makes me feel about 8 years old again- I noticed an Italian couple embracing in front of the triceratops. Then, I noticed that they were doing more than embracing. These people were messily making out, groping each other and whispering what I can only imagine were not G-rated messages into each others' ears, IN THE DINOSAUR ROOM!!! Um, ewww!!! I thought about writing an entry about them, making up a romantic back story as to why they just could not restrain themselves in a public museum with little children running about, but honestly I didn't feel like delving into some strangers' love life. Then, I thought about creating a scenario where a horrified mother lectures them on the rules of public decency, especially British public decency in front of her fascinated 6 year-old, who just couldn't resist asking, "Mommy, why is that guy sticking his tongue in her mouth and grabbing her swimsuit area?" But I decided to leave the Italian couple out of my Travel Journal. Maybe it's a strange jealousy, or maybe just my own sense of public decency, but I didn't feel like writing about them. Instead, I moved on to the pterodactyls.

At the end of my afternoon in the museum, I was left with no moment that I wanted to capture. I didn't want to write about a boring little boy with his parents, or an old man drawing a chicken, or a Italian couple exchanging saliva under an Apatosaurus. As I walked home, I considered all the things I had seen, all the rooms I had been in. I remembered my own favorite exhibits. When I got back to my flat, I went through the pictures I had taken. I'd first run toward the skeleton of a Moa bird, an extinct species from New Zealand that resembles a huge ostrich, displayed in the museum's main lobby. Then, I'd found another Moa skeleton, a much older, 5000 year old specimen in the hall showing human's impact on the world. I loved how strong and solid the bird's bones looked. They seemed so heavy, especially compared to my own little cockatiel at home, who weighs all of two and a half ounces. I imagined my Maggie juxtaposed onto this beast of a bird, which measured 12 feet high and weighed over 500 pounds, and almost giggled aloud. Yet, despite the obvious physical differences, I could imagine similarities between Maggie and this giant Moa.

Maggie is the fiercest creature I've ever met. She is an excellent judge of character, and if she doesn't like someone, she will make their time around her sheer hell. Maggie is incredibly protective of me, and can sense if someone has made me unhappy, and she'll make them pay for it. She never forgets a grudge. The first day I brought her home, my cousin pulled her tail as a joke, and to this day, she hates him. Looking at the Moa bird, I see a kindred spirit. This bird had huge, powerful legs to ward off predators. I can picture it defending its young with the same single-mindedness as my Maggie when she's guarding her chip bag or hoard of paperclips. When I look at the skeletal face of the Moa, I see a similarity in expression, even though the ancient bones and beak have been wired into an unnatural position, and it has been thousands of years since the bird possessed eyes and feathers and the spark of life that makes all birds so very special. This bird and my bird are cousins, of a sort. The Moas came from New Zealand, and Maggie's ancestors originated in Australia. Any birdkeeper knows that the region the bird comes from has a huge impact on its personality. Australian birds are known in the bird world for being fiercely loyal, incredibly intelligent, and the snuggliest of all birds. I wonder, who was this bird once loyal to? Did it have a mate and young to guard? After spending 7 years with Maggie, I am attuned to all of her little expressions and quirks. I wonder how many she shares with this great ancestor.

As I remembered the sense of awe I felt while observing the Moa bird skeleton, I realized that I had found my "moment" to capture. Instead of looking to a stranger to write about, I captured my own moment, my sense of wonder at this set of bones that somehow reminds me of a little white bird an ocean away.