Oh, But to be a Galway Girl

Finals week has arrived.  How do I know?  There remains a mountain of assignments piled high on my figurative desk (I don't actually have one here, which only escalates the stress of the homework situation) and no matter how I type and how I write, it just doesn't seem to be getting. any. smaller. I have three papers left to write, a presentation to help plan, and two poems to memorize.  I've already done two days worth of work, this is just the left overs.  So indulge me as I transport myself back to the  damp street of Dublin and the Temple Bar area, and reminisce the weekend I never wanted to end.

I knew our long awaited Thanksgiving trip would be a happy adventure the moment my friend hopped into the right side of the cab taking us to the airport, and failed to realize the steering wheel in front of her for several moments--oh yea, they drive on the left in Britain.
We arrived in at the Dublin International Airport late on a cold and windy Wednesday night, in response to which I layered my T-shirt, hoodie, jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves on my body, and set out for the city--a group of seven, rather loud, American girls.
Our foreign-ness was only emphasized when a the poor man sitting in the bus seat behind us was kind enough to interject between our quarrel of whether this was our bus stop or not--he assured us it was (rather sarcastically, I might add.  You mean you didn't enjoy our excited banter and mispronunciation of Irish street names for a half hour?)  It was only when we had exited the bus that we looked up to stare straight into a significantly sized sign with name of our hostel on it that would have been easily seen from any bus window.

That night we walked into Gogarty's Pub, not knowing yet that it would become "our" pub, and a place we would frequent every night while in Dublin.  I even own a commemorative shirt because we spent so much time there. The live Irish folk music entertained us for quite some time, and we became known among the band as "The Girls," soberly cheering and singing, taking videos and pictures more than any other wasted person in the pub.  I felt so Irish that night, as if the Ireland I had envisioned my whole life had been placed, in real life, directly in front of me, and I could feel it, touch it, participate in it.  It was a happy night.             And this man gave me quite the fright when he suddenly appeared next to me.                                                               Thanksgiving dinner, though the only part that felt Thanksgiving about it was an expression of thanks from each person for something in their life, was held at the Hard Rock Cafe.  It was the first time I had ever had to pay for my Thanksgiving dinner, and my first away from home.  While I missed America, and a wide spread celebration of the holiday, I missed my family and friends that I would have spent it with more; I missed what I am most thankful for--good company and strong, loving arms of the family that supports me.

 A Dublin Thanksgiving was not without its perks, however.  When no one else celebrates your holiday, and you are quite the minority, it gives beautiful, young, guitar-playing Irish men a chance to pay you special attention to you, and sing a song in honor of Thanksgiving.  November 24, 2010 at Farrington's Bar will forever be cataloged in my mind as the night I exploited the Thanksgiving holiday to no end, as well as my American heritage; he played Johnny Cash, to remind us of home on Thanksgiving, and I loved every minute of it, especially the Irish brogue coming through the lyrics. 

The whole of my Ireland trip was defined by the homey dynamic of the small, pretty city divided by the River Liffey, and the cold, brisk air. There was even a little snowfall on our last day to see us off.  There was also a massive protest on our last day in the fair city of Dublin, clogging the whole of O'Connell Street, where our airport shuttle was to pick us up.  We were prepared, though.  We saved plenty of time to travel to the airport, sought information on where the bus was diverted to, and arrived at what we assumed was the correct bus stop, only to wait for half an hour for a bus that never showed up, and, according to one of the several taxi drivers that stopped to try and offer us a ride to the airport, it wouldn't be stopping there for another couple hours; no buses could get up there because of the closed O'Connell Street.  Now, here's where my New York state of mind comes into play.  The cab driver was adamant about the bus not stopping there, about it's inability to transfer us to the airport to catch our flight--but I was skeptical.  He was just saying that to get us to pay him to take us to the airport.  But when he told us he'd take us for four Euros each, my idea faltered a little bit.  Then, when he lowered his price even farther, telling those of us that had no Euro currency left he'd take whatever we could give him because the airport was on his way home, I was convinced if we got into the van all seven of us would end up in sex trade, never to see the streets of London again. 

Against my better judgment, we all piled into the taxi, only to be at the airport 20 minutes later, having had pleasant chatter with Dublin native, and four Euros for the poorer.  Irish people are so NICE and so friendly! But I do stand by my theory that I really would have been sold into the human trafficking business had I gotten into a cab under the same circumstances in NYC.

Sadly, Ireland had to end, and I returned to London, faced with a week full of tiring work--though at least the recent snowfall has been a beautiful happiness to experience!  There's nothing quite like snow coming down in the city...

Ireland is a mere memory now, something I will forever keep tucked away in my heart to pull out when I need a pick me up.  I'll never remember trudging through the slushy streets, the morning after the snowfall, finding Marion Square, home to the Oscar Wilde statue, cover in a blanket of fresh, unadulterated snow, nor the memories I shared with the dear girls I journeyed with--without them I wouldn't have had half the amount of fun I can fondly reminisce on now.

I will go back to Ireland one day.  It is my mother-land, the place I hail from, and I am proud of it.  I felt at home there, in Dublin, like I belonged in that city, like it offered me the opportunity to blend in and stand out at the same time.  And the next time I go, I will explore the countryside, I will find that B&B, run in a couple's home, with two rooms and home cooked meals, out in the boonies of the green hills.  Maybe I'll even find that man with the Irish brogue...or maybe I'll just cast myself as the part of Amy Adams in Leap Year--that might be easier.  Either way--I'll be back to Ireland, I'm sure of it.  It's nestled itself into a place to close too my heart not to be.

When It's Cold Outside, Show the World the Warmth of Your Smile

The chilly winter months in London have finally approached, and I've welcomed it in with a cup of hot chocolate and a walk across Westminster Bridge and down the River Thames, accompanied by my favorite scarf (though my jacket didn't quite make it...at least I was in long sleeves?).  I love winter, there's something about the way the sun shines differently, the bare trees casting shadows in its wake, across sidewalks and streets.  And then, of course, there's the Christmas lights that decorate Oxford and Regents Street, the Christmas displays of Liberty and Hamleys, and the set up for the Hyde Park Winter Festival that I ran by this morning. Yes, Christmas is very much in the air down in the shopping district on November 17, but we must forgive them (Mom!), the absence of Thanksgiving warrants an early celebration.
The cold, however, hasn't hampered my spirits, and I feel more at home here in London than ever.  The past week had brought with its arrival annoyances, agitations, and complaints, even a drama scene, and led me to a conclusion I think I have known for sometime--thirty six girls should NEVER live in one house together.  Our gender is simply not conducive to long stays under the same roof, seeing the same people, every. single. day.  But, for me, at least, there is no grievance that a solitary day in London cannot fix, no complaint that it cannot erase, no anger that it cannot calm.  So, that is exactly what I did.  I spent a day in Westminster, gazing at Big Ben, walking the Thames, letting my thoughts run wild.  Then I tacked on another day, calling upon the National Gallery and its array of Impressionist paintings (nothing can capture my attention like a Monet, or a Sisley, even a Constable here and there).  And to top off my self-declared mental health day, I browsed in second hand book shops on Charing Cross Road--and bought me some books.  Since then I have had no thoughts of accidentally knocking someone down the stairs, instigating a verbal brawl in the kitchen, or stuffing my dirty socks in someone's mouth; sometimes all I require to run efficiently and pleasantly is some alone time.

Two nights ago I checked off another play on my list of the "Must-sees While in London," and probably my favorite one, too: Wicked.  Oh, I really don't think my fingers can fly fast enough, or efficiently enough, over my keyboard to express how ecstatic it made me.  I had forgotten how much I loved it, because, really, I do LOVE it!  The voices and acting can elicit no harsh critique from me, and the storyline, well, the storyline has always been fantastic.  "Defying Gravity" still gave me goosebumps, the sensation spreading from the tips of my fingers to its shivery culmination, complete with wide eyes and a smirk on my face.  If only I could sing, and act, and didn't suffer from stage fright, I would be Elphaba, if I could, green skin and all.
Yesterday we all spent the day in Cambridge, walking the narrow streets, trying to make ourselves blend in with the infinitely superior students of the colleges, and failing miserably as we jumped in front of bikes (yes, I did almost get myself run over) to get pictures of everything we could lay our greedy eyes on.  The salesmen on the streets took full advantage of our boisterous displays, successfully selling us a boat ride along the Cam--which is called 'punting', apparently.  Despite my fears, I did not fall in the icy cold water getting in or out of the shallow, small boat; I did manage to get my hand bitten by a mallard duck, though.  Quite feisty, they are.
And today, I finally have a funny tube story, worthy of a re-telling.  The Imperial War Museum is a required site for my Great War and Modernism class, and is just a little walk away from a Bakerloo line tube station.  So, today, two of us procrastinating types (it was assigned well over a month ago) set out to visit it.  We sat on the tube, waiting for our stop, chatting and discussing, apparently oblivious to everything else around us, because soon I hear a surprised, "oh, is this our stop?!"--sure enough, it was.  My friend and I darted towards the doors just as the bell signaling their closing began to sound.  I slipped through the sliding doors, and turned to face Anne, laughing at our close call. But she was not next to me like I planned. I turned back just in time to see her sheepish grin peer out at me from the shut door, and my "Run, Anne!" was of no use. I doubled over laughing at our division--it was only a small door that separated her from where she needed to be, and I could have touched her from where I was standing, but the train pulled out of the station, and I watched Anne wave me goodbye from the window, both of us convulsing in what looked like unexplained laughter to those around us.

The days are going by fast now, each week flying faster than the previous, but I have discovered I am not heartbroken to see them go.  I fill them generously with outings and memories of London and friends that will last me a lifetime, and while I do sometimes get caught up in the syndrome of, "there's still so much left to do!" I don't wish for any of it back, or even more time.  The time I have left is sufficient, and I know that by the time December 8th rolls around, I will be ready to be see my family, ready to go home.  After all, as much as I love England, America is my home.  America is where my heartstrings are tied to, it is where I belong, it is what I love.

Long Words & Longer Days

Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.  Yes. That is a word. The longest Welsh word, in fact, and is the name of a town in northern Wales, or Cymru--that's the Welsh name for Wales.  It now tops the former longest word I knew, Humuhumunukunukuapua'a, the name of Hawaii's state fish. Though, I'm not sure I could actually pronounce the Welsh word if asked to.  I take that back, I know I can't.  But I'll gladly tell you the name of the Hawaiian fish.  
Our two day trip to Wales was chock full of sites and places to see, and learning experiences, as made obvious by my new found foreign vocabulary (which is not very extensive, let me assure you). Perhaps my favorite visit in Wales was the tour of Big Pit Mine, a mine still classified as a working one, though it has not seen any extracting machinery since 1980, and the only activity down in the tunnels are tours of eager and awed people, like myself.  
The gray clouds hung heavily in the air as we stepped off the coach to enter the visitors' center of the mine, and sprinkled droplets of rain on us, but I soon forgot the foul weather as I waited in line to suit up in proper mining attire.  The temperature dropped, walking into what I assume was an old sheet-metal inspired shanty for wagons of coal, and the workers plopped a hardhat on my head, attached a headlamp to it (which I had too much fun with), and cinched a leather belt around my waist, holding about 10 pounds of emergency necessities--my headlamp battery, and an oxygen filter...just in case.  The lift descended down into the tunnels, and it got darker and darker, our headlamps the only things warding off the encroaching blindness.  Stepping out into the tunnels overhead light hit my eyes once more, as there was a small station and man waiting to let my group, and our guide, out of the cramped lift.  But the light was only momentary, because as soon as we began to walk, the light faded into the distance behind us, and fast--the rest of the time our paths were lit only by the small flashlights situated on our helmets.  With 18 people the level of light was bearable, even better than was I had anticipated...but if it was only you? If one worker were alone? How eerie and dim the light would be. Our tour guide, whom we affectionately nick-named Gollum after a rather humorous run in with another of his fellow tour guides,  had us all turn of our headlamps at one point, and the darkness was so black that I quite literally couldn't see the hand in front of my face.  As we walked around the slippery and dank paths the ceilings would get lower and lower, until I had to bend almost in half to prevent a smack to the head and the migraine that would result.  
I could go on and on about the mine, the damp smell and slick, muddied floors, often housing a partially covered piece of railway metal, the horror stories of children working, of people dying, the stables that housed horses who never saw daylight, the unrivaled camaraderie between the men....but I'll fast forward to the next stop...St Fagan's, also known as Welsh World, an outdoor museum that incorporates everything you would ever want to know about the history of the and that is Wales...and more.  Recreated villages, old castle sites, beautiful scenery--you name it.
Friday was our church history site day, and a day to remember.  The very sites where our church began, where so many faithful people made choices that continue to influence lives today--where people like you and me wrote a history that is dear to my heart, and to whom I owe the person I am.  Whether by blood or heritage, they are my ancestors.  I was touched to no end by the scenes presented to me that day, and it's not one that I will soon forget.
Saturday, back in London, I spent the day traversing the areas of Covent Garden, Leicester Square, and Piccadilly Circus, spent way too much money, and made more memories to last me a lifetime.  Sometimes it's just wonderful to take a day and do nothing productive, to go where ever your feet lead you, even if it is away from the tube station. Buy a meal that is too expensive and spend it talking good talks with friends, take the time to walk the streets and drink in the atmosphere that pulses through London.  Then top it off with a fantastic Halloween party, complete with costumes, cob webs, sugar cookies, and doughnuts on a string.

 ...especially when you have two essays due on Monday. 

Paint Me a Birmingham

I have recently come to the realization that I have been severely lacking in my blog posts in October.  For those of you who really do follow my escapades closely, I apologize.  Though I think I am rather flattering myself to believe that is many of you. Anyway, my neglect has not been intentional, but simply stems from a draining, but lovely busyness of the past week and a half. 

 Last week was our program trip up to the north of England, and it was there I discovered that my impressions and beliefs of the north have been incorrect.The words "Northern England" always incited a picture of sprawling fields, natural beauty, and everything lush and green, everything desirable and wanted in a rural and wilderness-inspired setting.  But, driving on our mustard yellow coach through the narrow roads of northern industrial towns, lined with remnants and sites of former cotton mills and factories, I realized how wrong my vision was.  The homes and public buildings still standing from the age of the industrial revolution are permanently blackened from the constant out pouring of soot and ash, forever marked with the legacy of darker days.  

On a lighter note, I learned the south of England was more of the countryside, picturesque world I had imagined in the north, though the north definitely contained its fair share of beautiful views, rolling hills dotted with white and black sheep, plots separated by old rock walls--breathtaking.  I got a perfect view of this standing atop the ancient wall that separated the Roman Empire from Scotland back in the day.  Hadrian's Wall, the official name of the old Roman camp, was constructed atop one such hill, enabling a person to see for miles and miles.  Not all the way to Scotland though, I found, because the boarder between the countries 

has since moved. 

Before we stopped at Hadrian's Wall on the way to the lake district, however, we spent two nights in York, where I made some of my fondest memories.  We had a full day to ourselves after our tour of York Minster, a rare and unusual gem that we took full advantage of. Museums and little tourist treasure abound in York, like the Shambles shopping district, which a considerable amount of time was spent in.  Thankfully, I did not spent a considerable amount of money, but there were a considerable amount of pictures taken in the Shambles, where there is a row of houses on each side of the street, leaning toward one another almost enough to shake hands across the topmost windows.

Our museum excursions took us into several exhibits, my favorite being the recreated Victorian street, complete with horse and buggy, flickering lamp posts, and overhead lights that faded the scene from day to nighttime. The Jorvick Center, on the other hand, was another ordeal entirely.  The museum-turned-ride is famous for it's recreated Norman town, and the modern day buggy that carries you around it, narrating the stories of each scene and hut, and the persons in them.  The most memorable part of our journey through the Viking civilization came at the very end--the recreated scene of a grown man in the outhouse, his upper torso clearly visible to us museum goers, as well as the look of utter pain etched into his plastic face.  Yes, I assure you, that actually happened, and the constipated man still sits there--never relinquished from his uncomfortable condition. Poor, unfortunate soul.

Our last night in York ended with a Ghost Walk through its streets, with a surprisingly friendly old man.  The cold and crisp autumn air was a delight wot walk through, and filled my lungs with a freshness that only the fall can give.  The old cobble stoned streets and encroaching brick homes lended themselves nicely to the telling of eerie ghost sitings and supposed hauntings, but even the ideal conditions and the deserted, dark streets couldn't pique my fear, but rather I was full of giggles and silliness the entire time--something that good company tends to bring out in me.

There is so much more to tell, hiking in the Lake District and reading Wordsworth while looking out upon the scene that inspired many of his works, disgusting hostel food, and goosebump inducing views--even more from the following weekend back in London and the subsequent days that followed.  But there is not enough time, at least not right now.  Our early departure tomorrow morning, to head down to Portsmouth and Brighton, demands hours of sleep, more hours than I can give, and I am short on hours in my day already. 

So much to do, so little time.

A Local in a Picturesque England

I've made a discovery. Nothing quite has the ability to thrill and also quiet me in reverent awe like the picturesque gardens of England.  Kew Gardens, grounds that have been painstakingly manicured and cared for since the time of King George III, were amazing, even in the infamous, windy, London rain.  I conveniently spent most of my time in the sheltered greenhouses full of exotic plants and trees, and it was wonderful and inciting to learn and observe such natural beauties--especially with my gardening professor as a personal tour guide.  But even the conservatories, tree-top walk, and long windy paths of Kew can't compare to Stourhead.  The landscape at Stourhead are unbelievably...picturesque, I guess, is the word I would use to describe it.  They are my whole imagination wrapped up in an amazingly, heart-achingly beautiful scene, and I did not want to leave.  The central pond, which is more like a small lake, boasts grottoes and old stone temples in every corner, partly shaded by the yellowing leaves of 100 year old trees.  Everywhere you look in picture worthy, and I felt like I couldn't snap enough frames fast enough to capture the pleasure the scenery bestowed upon my heart.  Though, now, looking back at my pictures I realize I do, indeed, have quite enough, probably enough to supply each and every one of my friends and family members with slightly different copies of some part of the view--you should know I have quite an extensive extended family.  Stourhead also gets to boast its role in Hollywood and the part it plays in the newest rendition of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice as the site of the first proposal of Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth Bennett.  Surprisingly, this was not the highlight of my visit to Stourhead, and I did not participate in the sad exploitation of the few males on our program to reenact the proposal scene with all but a few of the 36 girls.  Instead I got the chance to walk the paths around the lake, climb up to Apollo Temple, which is where Darcy proposed, and visit the arched bridge that Keira Knightly runs across as a means of getting to the temple that she is so completely blindsided  by Matthew Macfadyen on.  I did, of course, have to take pictures at all of these places, but I really was relishing the scene rather than the film history.  It was only grudgingly that I left, unwilling to miss the bus and find my own way back home.  I would have given anything to be able to sit atop the hill that the Apollo Temple resided on and read my book overlooking the serene, wind rippled lake flanked by the changing trees of fall.
Yesterday after classes I went on another excursion, though this time around the city of London, and not the green fields of the English countryside.  Over a little north of Oxford street, the mecca of all things shopping (at least to my knowledge so far), is an exhibit called the Wallace Collection.  It houses mostly Rococo art, and is an old family collection that is now open to the lucky public.  I enjoyed going through the rooms of the antique house that is nicer than my own at home, because I really do like the French Rococo artists...especially Fragonard.  I enjoy the wispy, painted landscapes and soft features and fancy dresses of the women, and also the satirical air subtlety portrayed in some of the works, like The Swing.  That has to be one of my favorites.  As much as I enjoyed the art, however, I enjoyed just roaming around the surrounding area afterword more.  My friend and I wandered somewhat aimlessly, not knowing exactly where the public gardens were that we had previously spotted on a map in passing.  The wandering and finding new streets and exploring without specific directions on where to go was liberating to me, and made me wonder why it had taken my almost a month to do it.  It wasn't the fear of getting lost because if you can find a tube station--which you undoubtedly will run into one at some point, the blaring signs are, for the most part, hard to miss--you are never really lost. (you are also never really lost if you carry a map with you...which I usually do). Perhaps it was the lack of time.  There is just so much to do and so much to see that I know it will be impossible to accomplish everything even in my three and a half month stay, and school work doesn't make that feat any easier.
Eventually we did stumble upon the park--a very small one compared to the massive Hyde and Kensington we are used to, but charming and quaint just the same. I realized on our little jaunt that I need to do more of the random walking and finding--it's how you get to know a place, it's how you start and end the journey of transforming from a tourist into a local, and I want to be a local by the time I leave, dangit!

Shakespearean Convert

My past two days have been filled with Shakespeare.  Normally, or, I should say, back at school, I would not be thrilled about this fact.  I would probably moan and whine about it enough that that would be quite obvious.  So lets get some of the moaning and whining out before I explain my real reason for writing about a man I was formerly indifferent to.
I've never been a Shakespeare kind of girl.  Romeo and Juliet is beautiful and I cannot deny the talent and feeling that was put into it.  But it is the epitome of mush and gush as far as my mind is concerned, second only in mushy-factor to the The Notebook. (I love the movie, can't stand the book--please don't get me started.) Reading Macbeth in seventh grade was likewise terrible, mostly because of my complete inability to understand the language.  I would undoubtedly end up reading the translated text, and that just isn't the same.  I have been told many a time that reading Shakespeare and watching Shakespeare preformed are two completely different experiences, the later being worth your while, and the former being...well...not. I didn't believe it until last night. (Though I often wondered why my teachers would say this, then turn around and proceed to assign whole acts to be read for class the next day.)
Last night our whole group of 38 students lined up outside the Globe theater, tickets in hand, to be groundlings at Shakespeare's Merry Wives of Winsdor.  I will admit, I wasn't thrilled at the idea of standing for three hours with nothing but a stage to lean on and a Shakespearean play to entertain me.  I waited, quite afraid that I would again get lost in trying to decipher the Olde English, and become literally bored to sleep.  (I am not proud of this, nor my inability to appreciate Shakespeare as he deserves, but, nonetheless, there it is.)  But as the gates opened and the attendees were ushered in, I found myself getting a bit excited, even if it was only because I was standing at the world-famous Globe theater in London, England, about to see a play and walk on a replica that had successfully traveled through time and history.  The play began, and, I swear, I didn't mind standing for the required amount of time--it was not a burden, it was fun.  I became engaged in the dynamics of the play, eager to see the plot thicken and resolve itself, enjoying every minute of it.  I danced to the music and song at the end scene and talked about it incessantly on the tube ride home--from St. Paul's to Notting Hill Gate.
Now  I understand my teachers when they tell me I have to watch Shakespeare to get the full effect of it, the difference real actors and costumes and emotion, instead of the imaginary ones inside your head, make is remarkable, and transforming--I have a new found respect for Shakespeare and the imagination and skill that created his plays, though I still vow to never read one again, unless forced.  I will watch them from now on, as they were intended to be experienced.
So, today, when we took a day trip to Stratford Upon Avon, Shakespeare's countryside hometown, and visited five different sites associated with him and his life there, I appreciated them.  And while I'm positive I would have appreciated the homes and buildings for their historical value alone had I not been to the Globe Theater the night before, I had the blessing to be able to love them because Shakespeare had been there, and had written his touching tragedies and witty comedies at these vary locations.  For a little while I got be a part of the places that shaped this literary genius, even if just for a second of insignificant time, my footsteps are still there, and always will be. 
The lush green foliage of the English countryside always reminds of home in Connecticut, and the beautiful greens of nature that should be turning vibrant colors any week now.  The "ooooo"s and "ahhh"s of the Utah kids at the beauty of  the nature, at all the trees and shrubs and just the general color green that is plastered everywhere the eye can see makes me laugh, but also makes me feel lucky and blessed to have grown up in an area of the world where those are scenes from everyday life.  People vacation to the countryside of England for the beauty of the earth, but I don't have to, I can go home to get it. And that's even better.

Hello, Hello

So, I've never done this before, and my lack of writing in my journal over the summer months is a testament to the concern that I wouldn't be able to maintain a blog. But I have broken down, I have succumbed to the peer pressure, if you will, because everyone around me has a blog, and I have finally been persuaded by the abundance to start my very own.
I won't write everything here, I have a journal for that (which I have been writing in on a regular basis, thank you very much.) And as much as I probably love all of you that are reading this, because, let's face it, who wants to read about my life unless you are in someway significantly connected to me, I don't want you to know everything, nor would you want to.  So there will be many things that will find their way only to my journal, reserved for it pages for safe keeping.  Call me a romantic, but there's something so appealing about a person's real handwriting on paper in a bound book that an internet blog can never replace.  It will never be as real, or as personal, as intimate.  That's another reason I won't share everything here, or post everyday--if only to give a reason to keep my journal. And if I write everything hear, it will turn into a journal, making keeping one superfluous and a waste of my time.
So every week, maybe more if I feel the need to write, which I often do. I think this blog will become a great outlet for that, something I've never given myself before, and something I am excited about.  It's an ideal time for me to begin, too, (or not ideal, depending upon how you look at it, because when I get home from London, what will there be to write about?!) because I will be able to write about my unique experiences and preserve my memories of London before they fade away, and hand them to you all, instead of filing them away in my journal. 
I hope that you'll find my stories and entries entertaining, or at the least they'll keep you satisfactorily updated on my life here in the UK.  I've started a month into it, so you'll have to forgive me for foregoing a few stories and jumping straight to the present, though I will probably relapse periodically and pull some of my favorite happenings out of my back pocket on a quiet day that holds no other interesting news, if you will allow me the indulgence.
I'm afraid I've got to attend to some pressing Great War and Modernism homework now, maybe even some Religion and Humanities that didn't get done for class this morning.  We'll see.
Until next time,

Carolyn