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.