“If you slit open my veins tea would run out.”

Full day of orientating. Predominantly redundant and obvious but nevertheless necessary. In a gap between two Umlat and I explored the proper direction and uncovered the majestic British Natural History Museum. The wings are expansive but the main hall is a delightful menagerie of skeletal beasts, including dodos and fanged critters and that ancient not extinct fish I learned about in fourth grade, dominated by a huge dinosaur skeleton.

The dinosaur skeleton is only a fake casting because THE REAL ONE IS IN THE CARNEGIE MUSEUM IN PITTSBURGH. How cool is that that we have the legitimate article and London of all places displays a gigantic fake?

I say ‘we’ like I’m from there. Which I guess I can decide if I am. I befriended a kid in an Oakland Zoo shirt on principle.

They brought in a police sergeant to expound upon the dangers of the city, or rather tell us the cheapest places for pints, how we could safely dispose of illegal pepper spray and mace (classified in the UK as firearms, minimum of two years’ incarceration for first offence), and that if we were arrested for being stupid drunk he would post the videos on his FaceBook for everyone to laugh at.

Internship orientation with information that it pains me to think anyone could not know about interning (i.e. “Smile!” “Be on time!” “Make good tea!”). Interview on Monday, somewhat a formality but if they despise me on first glance I’ll be reassigned.

Official welcome tea at the Regency Hotel, wherein our lovely academic dean made the statement that titles this post on her slavish devotion to steeped substances and reenacted a brief Monty Python skit.

Charming tiny sandwiches of non eggy substances (I despise egg sandwiches) and intricately built layered concoctions that may have been passion fruit-inspired or improvised tiramisu or key lime pie-based. Superb tea, naturally.

Crazily crowded tube ride home, but the tube is already starting to feel natural.
We now contemplate going to a pub, or instead just waiting around until the pubs close (at eleven p.m.) and complaining and then going to sleep. I hate not having a plan, the overcoming of which will have to be amongst the goals for the semester. Still, I can’t help wanting to know what I should wear or if I need my oyster card (tube fare ticket, just tap it on the turnstile and go) and how much money to bring and how far we need to go and just generally what.

I feel awful putting on makeup and dressing up without my beloved Paulina and Christy, and somehow (black belt be damned) it doesn’t feel safe to go out without the boys. Not in some bizarre female misogynist women-without-men-are-nothing kind of way, because well duh, but it’s just what I’m used to, it's the only form of going out I've ever known.

Called Dad in attempt to assuage homesickness. He told me that girl cat misses me terribly and is hiding under beds again like a poor sad thing.

LATER... like 2:30 a.m. later

Umlat and 8th and I met up with Samuel, also a Praed Street dweller, for our first pints (Beck’s) at a genuine pub, a tiny place called The Grand Western a block down from our flat populated sparsely by friendly locals who insisted on taking our pictures for us. Followed by a detour to some other pub, boasting food and moderately better prices but also middle age drunken Welsh gentlemen who appeared harmless but inquired excessively into our native ancestries and the fabric of my coat.
We then returned to our flat for a viewing of a possibly illegal or at least dubiously acquired copy of ‘The Life Aquatic’ and gin and tonics with our new friend and his flat mate Patrick. Lovely night overall, despite initial darkening of homesickness, kept at bay by charming company and a moderate quantity of (entirely legal here, may I remind you) alcohol.
Tomorrow, we embark early to navigate the tubes and buses given the supposedly temporary shut down of our main line for the panoramic sightseeing tour.