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.