My culinary experiments have been met with less than enthusiasm.
So far Dad and I have made quinoa and beef stuffed peppers (and tacos for lame people), curried chicken (and regular chicken for lame people), and homemade pizza from scratch utilizing flour ground at Rudyard Kipling's stone mill with NO CONCESSIONS FOR LAME PEOPLE. Mom and Emily are not adventures or fun, be advised. Also they make faces.
Life at home so far is not unlike my last week in London, in that there is bloody nothing to do and the flowers are nice. Emily proposed we trade lives but it would never work: I'm far taller than her and currently sporting trendy short hair. The librarian at the local public library recognized me, remarked upon my absence, and placed requests for me for all the obscure British authors I'm now into. My job prospects are a shade brighter than bleak but only a shade and feature the new party store which has taken over the balloon business from the old party store. Why is one of my most marketable skills making balloon bouquets? Is that weird?
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Places Like Home: There Aren't Any
Certain phrases are clearly never going to leave my vocabulary. I'm back in 'the states' and it's 'brill' and I'm 'so sorry' I haven't posted to notify my loyal readership of that and subsequently incited their wrath (Hi Texas Simkins! Please don't sic the dogs or Emma on me!). The excessively apologizing for things like being in someone's way or imagining that you might possibly be in someone else's way or otherwise potentially impeding them in any manner has apparently become noticeably ingrained- my mother has commented upon it.
On Saturday I teamed up with Ruthie, who lived in the same building as me and was on my flight, for the fifteen hour odyssey that was lugging gabillions of pounds of luggage down Praed Street to Paddington station, onto the Heathrow Connect train, through the endless corridors of Europe's busiest airport, and finally arriving at our gate several hours early. Which gave us ample time to plan a tea party to be held at an undetermined date celebrating the prince's as-yet unannounced engagement. I will miss British pop culture and celebrity gossip.
The flight went fine and actually landed early, but not before I had time to watch two feature length films, four television episodes, and dissect the frozen vegetables and shady pasta-esque concoction which I was presented with in lieu of lunch.
The Simkin welcome committee practically knocked me over and disrupted the flow of weary travelers attempting to leave international arrivals, then took me to see Bubbe (my grandmother) and my cats (who remain, unsurprisingly but reassuringly, furry and uninterested in my affairs) and then out to a dinner with my aunt and uncle and grandparents during which I practically fell asleep in my Cesar salad to everyone's amusement except mine.
Yesterday I woke up at 5:00 Eastern Standard Time because it was late morning for me with my European internal clock, and to my familys' great chagrin pro ceded to make an omelet and catch up on episodes of Dollhouse I'd missed- quietly, but still at an ungodly hour.
Mom and I went to see Emily in a Jewish theater festival where she was excellent, then I attempted to get my room and life in some semblance of an order before enjoying a homecooked meal and watching Castle episodes with Dad and Skimmer (this blog's namesake of sorts).
I am now confronted with the issue of what to do with Skimbolina. Not the cat, whom I will obviously continue to admire from afar for fear of his razor claws and "playfulness" but this blog, which while perfectly permissible and reasonable to keep as record of my exciting adventures and misadventures from abroad strikes me as somewhat pretentious to keep just to recount my ever so ordinary life in Audubon Pennsylvania. On the other hand, I do enjoy writing it quite a bit and although reader comments are few and far between my mother claims that I've got a substantial readership among her friend and family. I will think about it and get back to you: right now I need tea and more Wii Fit, because I loathe being thirsty and inactive. Cheers!
On Saturday I teamed up with Ruthie, who lived in the same building as me and was on my flight, for the fifteen hour odyssey that was lugging gabillions of pounds of luggage down Praed Street to Paddington station, onto the Heathrow Connect train, through the endless corridors of Europe's busiest airport, and finally arriving at our gate several hours early. Which gave us ample time to plan a tea party to be held at an undetermined date celebrating the prince's as-yet unannounced engagement. I will miss British pop culture and celebrity gossip.
The flight went fine and actually landed early, but not before I had time to watch two feature length films, four television episodes, and dissect the frozen vegetables and shady pasta-esque concoction which I was presented with in lieu of lunch.
The Simkin welcome committee practically knocked me over and disrupted the flow of weary travelers attempting to leave international arrivals, then took me to see Bubbe (my grandmother) and my cats (who remain, unsurprisingly but reassuringly, furry and uninterested in my affairs) and then out to a dinner with my aunt and uncle and grandparents during which I practically fell asleep in my Cesar salad to everyone's amusement except mine.
Yesterday I woke up at 5:00 Eastern Standard Time because it was late morning for me with my European internal clock, and to my familys' great chagrin pro ceded to make an omelet and catch up on episodes of Dollhouse I'd missed- quietly, but still at an ungodly hour.
Mom and I went to see Emily in a Jewish theater festival where she was excellent, then I attempted to get my room and life in some semblance of an order before enjoying a homecooked meal and watching Castle episodes with Dad and Skimmer (this blog's namesake of sorts).
I am now confronted with the issue of what to do with Skimbolina. Not the cat, whom I will obviously continue to admire from afar for fear of his razor claws and "playfulness" but this blog, which while perfectly permissible and reasonable to keep as record of my exciting adventures and misadventures from abroad strikes me as somewhat pretentious to keep just to recount my ever so ordinary life in Audubon Pennsylvania. On the other hand, I do enjoy writing it quite a bit and although reader comments are few and far between my mother claims that I've got a substantial readership among her friend and family. I will think about it and get back to you: right now I need tea and more Wii Fit, because I loathe being thirsty and inactive. Cheers!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
New Boots vs. Cute Flats vs. Ruby Slippers: Clear Winner
It’s been a tense week but it’s starting to look like I might get home okay. Let’s not be excessively optimistic, but Heathrow is open. I’m mainly attributing it to the ladybug I found on Tuesday, which was clearly magical lucky.
The sad thing is I find myself not much able to appreciate these last few days in London, so badly do I want to get home. I want to see my family and my friends and my cats, of course, but I have renewed appreciation for not just the little things about home but the tiny, the miniscule. I cannot wait to do chores and errands, laundry in a machine that actually works and grocery shopping for familiar brands.
I will tell you the thing about London, because I know you’ve been waiting, thinking anxiously to yourselves, ‘Whenever will Sarah tell us the thing about London!?’. The thing is this: it’s a terrific background for a life. It’s got everything you could ever want… if you have a life, with work and engagements and obligations and people to see. As a city to just loaf around in its indisputably better than most, but even still, there’s only so much. I have done all the London-y things I wished to do, seen the museums and the markets and the landmarks and the parks, the West End shows and the pubs. I have skimmed the layer of tourist things and got to the semi-native activities and it’s been spectacular, but the past week has been like living on icing and Swedish fish. A day with nothing more to do read in the sun is great (environmental damage to my skin notwithstanding) if it’s recovering from a full week of activity, a well deserved respite, but if all I’m resting up from is a previous day in the park and all I’ve got to look forward to tomorrow is another day in the park, for me at least it’s significantly less enjoyable.
So that’s what I’ve been up to, Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park and Regents Park and Primrose Hill and some devastatingly beautiful novel I found in the CAPA library. Also the farewell class of Understanding British with the inestimable Professor Fosdal which took place at a pirate themed pub in Covent Garden (of course it did). I took two exams and turned in three papers today and I’ve got one more exam tomorrow, then the goodbye dinner and what’s being billed as a killer night at ISH before the hazy nightmare that is transatlantic travel commences. And, of course, thanks to my new Murad products, I have been taking wicked good care of my skin.
The sad thing is I find myself not much able to appreciate these last few days in London, so badly do I want to get home. I want to see my family and my friends and my cats, of course, but I have renewed appreciation for not just the little things about home but the tiny, the miniscule. I cannot wait to do chores and errands, laundry in a machine that actually works and grocery shopping for familiar brands.
I will tell you the thing about London, because I know you’ve been waiting, thinking anxiously to yourselves, ‘Whenever will Sarah tell us the thing about London!?’. The thing is this: it’s a terrific background for a life. It’s got everything you could ever want… if you have a life, with work and engagements and obligations and people to see. As a city to just loaf around in its indisputably better than most, but even still, there’s only so much. I have done all the London-y things I wished to do, seen the museums and the markets and the landmarks and the parks, the West End shows and the pubs. I have skimmed the layer of tourist things and got to the semi-native activities and it’s been spectacular, but the past week has been like living on icing and Swedish fish. A day with nothing more to do read in the sun is great (environmental damage to my skin notwithstanding) if it’s recovering from a full week of activity, a well deserved respite, but if all I’m resting up from is a previous day in the park and all I’ve got to look forward to tomorrow is another day in the park, for me at least it’s significantly less enjoyable.
So that’s what I’ve been up to, Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park and Regents Park and Primrose Hill and some devastatingly beautiful novel I found in the CAPA library. Also the farewell class of Understanding British with the inestimable Professor Fosdal which took place at a pirate themed pub in Covent Garden (of course it did). I took two exams and turned in three papers today and I’ve got one more exam tomorrow, then the goodbye dinner and what’s being billed as a killer night at ISH before the hazy nightmare that is transatlantic travel commences. And, of course, thanks to my new Murad products, I have been taking wicked good care of my skin.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Eyjafjallajokull
Under other circumstances, I might go on a bit about Friday having been our last “real” class with Professor Fosdal –who is now my facebook friend!- because we’re meeting at a pirate-themed pub next week, and how class was conducted partially in the park and partially in the Goat Tavern (right by the Milestone Hotel of Milavec fame). Were things different I might discuss excursions to Camden Market, Portobello Road Market, Covent Garden, and Piccadilly nightclub Tiger Tiger.
But no, things are the way they are, and what was at first a distant and unlikely joke of a travel disruption is now a very real threat. Iceland’s unprecedented geographic activity may well stop me from getting home in anything like a reasonable manner. Because this isn’t like a flight being canceled or delayed, this is like there are no more flights for the foreseeable future. The media is recommending alternative forms of transportation, with the consequent that the Eurostar is sold out for weeks and ferries and trains are seeing huge boosts in ticket sales, but you know what? There is no train to Philadelphia from Paddington! Or King’s Cross or even St Pancreas! None at all! That is not a viable route!
And transatlantic ships have been out of vogue pretty much since the Titanic, making them all but impossible to find let alone book.
The wind might shift on Wednesday enough to clear up flights for Saturday, but if not my future is exceptionally uncertain. Anyone who knows me even marginally probably knows I am not someone who thrives on uncertainty. Some of you may be familiar with the Excel spreadsheets I keep to monitor my degree progression or my extensively detailed calendars, or what I total drag I am to take to a party what with my excessive questions about where we’re going and how we’ll get there and how we’ll get back and if John McKay will be there. So it is not a happy camper who is blogging this.
Of course there’s nothing to be done other than anxiously investigate how on this godforsaken ash-covered earth one goes about finding a ship that isn’t an outrageously expensive cruise liner or getting to New York by way of Panama and Beijing… and walk.
The count on Times I Have Walked To Buckingham Palace for the Sheer, Unadulterated Hell of It is now at three. Although this time I finally managed to see the changing of the guards with the silly hats and the mobs of foreign tourists. So I walked in that direction until my iPod died, came back to make lunch and recharge the iPod, and then walked in the other direction to Primrose Hill. Walking alone in London after dark is inadvisable so after dinner I may have to be content with pacing my building’s staircase, but this is no occasion on which to sit still.
So as not to leave off on such a pensive angsty note I will briefly regale you with the details of my flatmate Bridget’s 21st birthday at Tiger Tiger, which involved no less than fifteen rowdy drunken Americans horrifying other would-be travelers into changing tube cars, some members of our party being kicked out of the club for sloppy inebriation before a fifth grader’s bedtime, me dancing with a boy who didn’t seem to know the words to the American songs and didn’t seem to know the words to the British songs and was really only just smiling in response to anything I said and turned out to be from the Czech Republic and not know any English at all (but was a decent dancer nevertheless), and Chloe and I getting kicked out of Tesco not for any semblance of disorderliness but merely just because it was closing.
And all that’s great but… I want to go home.
But no, things are the way they are, and what was at first a distant and unlikely joke of a travel disruption is now a very real threat. Iceland’s unprecedented geographic activity may well stop me from getting home in anything like a reasonable manner. Because this isn’t like a flight being canceled or delayed, this is like there are no more flights for the foreseeable future. The media is recommending alternative forms of transportation, with the consequent that the Eurostar is sold out for weeks and ferries and trains are seeing huge boosts in ticket sales, but you know what? There is no train to Philadelphia from Paddington! Or King’s Cross or even St Pancreas! None at all! That is not a viable route!
And transatlantic ships have been out of vogue pretty much since the Titanic, making them all but impossible to find let alone book.
The wind might shift on Wednesday enough to clear up flights for Saturday, but if not my future is exceptionally uncertain. Anyone who knows me even marginally probably knows I am not someone who thrives on uncertainty. Some of you may be familiar with the Excel spreadsheets I keep to monitor my degree progression or my extensively detailed calendars, or what I total drag I am to take to a party what with my excessive questions about where we’re going and how we’ll get there and how we’ll get back and if John McKay will be there. So it is not a happy camper who is blogging this.
Of course there’s nothing to be done other than anxiously investigate how on this godforsaken ash-covered earth one goes about finding a ship that isn’t an outrageously expensive cruise liner or getting to New York by way of Panama and Beijing… and walk.
The count on Times I Have Walked To Buckingham Palace for the Sheer, Unadulterated Hell of It is now at three. Although this time I finally managed to see the changing of the guards with the silly hats and the mobs of foreign tourists. So I walked in that direction until my iPod died, came back to make lunch and recharge the iPod, and then walked in the other direction to Primrose Hill. Walking alone in London after dark is inadvisable so after dinner I may have to be content with pacing my building’s staircase, but this is no occasion on which to sit still.
So as not to leave off on such a pensive angsty note I will briefly regale you with the details of my flatmate Bridget’s 21st birthday at Tiger Tiger, which involved no less than fifteen rowdy drunken Americans horrifying other would-be travelers into changing tube cars, some members of our party being kicked out of the club for sloppy inebriation before a fifth grader’s bedtime, me dancing with a boy who didn’t seem to know the words to the American songs and didn’t seem to know the words to the British songs and was really only just smiling in response to anything I said and turned out to be from the Czech Republic and not know any English at all (but was a decent dancer nevertheless), and Chloe and I getting kicked out of Tesco not for any semblance of disorderliness but merely just because it was closing.
And all that’s great but… I want to go home.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Goodbye Murad
Last day of work today! I put the final touches on all seven databases and their corresponding media quick lists, sorted some nail polish kits, and made up gift packages: perfect finish.
And guess who got a Murad gift package all their own?
Keifer Sutherland! ...but me too, which was really sweet. It has Active Radiance Serum, which is the product I've been promoting all semester, so that was appropriate, and also some pomegranate stuff which is excellent. It's no longer my responsibility to promote Murad products (although Leandra and I had supposed that a signfigant bump in US sales upon our return to the States would bode well for our hypothetical possible future applications to work for the American branch of Murad in LA), but on the off chance anyone has burning questions about which range might be appropriate for them or what the cellular water principle is... please ask, because otherwise all my hard won product knowledge will go to waste.
In less cheerful news: a volcano apparently erupted in Iceland and the subsequent ash has closed down the entire UK airspace. Which is problematic for flights. So, if it takes longer than a week to clear up, I have an issue...
And guess who got a Murad gift package all their own?
Keifer Sutherland! ...but me too, which was really sweet. It has Active Radiance Serum, which is the product I've been promoting all semester, so that was appropriate, and also some pomegranate stuff which is excellent. It's no longer my responsibility to promote Murad products (although Leandra and I had supposed that a signfigant bump in US sales upon our return to the States would bode well for our hypothetical possible future applications to work for the American branch of Murad in LA), but on the off chance anyone has burning questions about which range might be appropriate for them or what the cellular water principle is... please ask, because otherwise all my hard won product knowledge will go to waste.
In less cheerful news: a volcano apparently erupted in Iceland and the subsequent ash has closed down the entire UK airspace. Which is problematic for flights. So, if it takes longer than a week to clear up, I have an issue...
Monday, April 12, 2010
Hamish the Highland Bull: Scotland
I never know quite where to leap into a thing. The beginning is too predictable, but anywhere else is disorienting. And the end, well, the end is usually King’s Cross Station.
Anyways, there we were on a train racing through the British countryside in a manner not at all unlike the Hogwarts Express. The scenery was lovely but only so entertaining for so long before some manner of diversion was called for. Thus: Degrees. A game tentatively based over Six Degree of Kevin Bacon, but since none of us (the group being comprised of Chloe, Sarah from Belgravia, and I) knew enough about Kevin Bacon films (Footloose! Dirty Dancing? The one where the… Midwestern kids fight… the Commies?) or cared that much about how many links it took to get to our destination, we ended up with things like Pontius Pilot to Martha Stewart and Anne Boleyn to Matthew Fox. Great fun.
Then we arrived in Edinburgh, navigated to our hostel and grabbed something to eat: I ordered a “Cheeseburger” which was actually ground beef mixed with cheese and grilled into a sort of patty but not that bad. We then stumbled upon a Ghost Tour led by a charismatic graduate student and signed up.
Which means I can now add “Gone on a Tour of Haunted Edinburgh” to the list of things I have done accidentally, which so far includes rock climbing (It was Emily’s fault, as if you had to ask) and how to make successful nachos.
The tour was neat and more historical than terrifying. Saturday we got up early for our tour of the Highlands. I am privileged to have seen a lot of really beautiful places in the last two decades, but none compare to the Scottish highlands. They’re just beyond gorgeous. And they have sheep and little lambs and great furry beasts called Highland cattle, one of which we got to meet and pet at a tourist trap (his name is Hamish, hence the title).
Our guide Steve (who was kilt-less but assured us that he usually had traditional Scottish garb and had only the other night sat in a bowl of guacamole but assured us that it was a great party nonetheless [side side note: I have never gotten the deal with kilts. I wore one for five years at Agnes Irwin as find them thoroughly uninteresting]) started off the tour with “And here you have Edinburgh castle, built in1985 out of match sticks for a school project. Good, are you awake?”
The weekend was outlandishly gorgeous, like some of the best weather since I’ve been in the UK, which was terrific except when we got to Loch Ness. It looked like a lake on a sunny day. Which it was. People were canoeing and everything. It was not at all mysterious and did not look liable to harbor a monster of any sort.
That night we ate at the Conan Doyle pub of Sherlock Holmes fame and meandered the city a bit before retiring. Sunday morning we toured Edinburgh Castle and shopped a bit before catching the six hour train back. At no point did I eat Haggis, but I don’t feel that bad because tour guide Steve said it’s not a real local dish anyways.
Anyways, there we were on a train racing through the British countryside in a manner not at all unlike the Hogwarts Express. The scenery was lovely but only so entertaining for so long before some manner of diversion was called for. Thus: Degrees. A game tentatively based over Six Degree of Kevin Bacon, but since none of us (the group being comprised of Chloe, Sarah from Belgravia, and I) knew enough about Kevin Bacon films (Footloose! Dirty Dancing? The one where the… Midwestern kids fight… the Commies?) or cared that much about how many links it took to get to our destination, we ended up with things like Pontius Pilot to Martha Stewart and Anne Boleyn to Matthew Fox. Great fun.
Then we arrived in Edinburgh, navigated to our hostel and grabbed something to eat: I ordered a “Cheeseburger” which was actually ground beef mixed with cheese and grilled into a sort of patty but not that bad. We then stumbled upon a Ghost Tour led by a charismatic graduate student and signed up.
Which means I can now add “Gone on a Tour of Haunted Edinburgh” to the list of things I have done accidentally, which so far includes rock climbing (It was Emily’s fault, as if you had to ask) and how to make successful nachos.
The tour was neat and more historical than terrifying. Saturday we got up early for our tour of the Highlands. I am privileged to have seen a lot of really beautiful places in the last two decades, but none compare to the Scottish highlands. They’re just beyond gorgeous. And they have sheep and little lambs and great furry beasts called Highland cattle, one of which we got to meet and pet at a tourist trap (his name is Hamish, hence the title).
Our guide Steve (who was kilt-less but assured us that he usually had traditional Scottish garb and had only the other night sat in a bowl of guacamole but assured us that it was a great party nonetheless [side side note: I have never gotten the deal with kilts. I wore one for five years at Agnes Irwin as find them thoroughly uninteresting]) started off the tour with “And here you have Edinburgh castle, built in1985 out of match sticks for a school project. Good, are you awake?”
The weekend was outlandishly gorgeous, like some of the best weather since I’ve been in the UK, which was terrific except when we got to Loch Ness. It looked like a lake on a sunny day. Which it was. People were canoeing and everything. It was not at all mysterious and did not look liable to harbor a monster of any sort.
That night we ate at the Conan Doyle pub of Sherlock Holmes fame and meandered the city a bit before retiring. Sunday morning we toured Edinburgh Castle and shopped a bit before catching the six hour train back. At no point did I eat Haggis, but I don’t feel that bad because tour guide Steve said it’s not a real local dish anyways.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Nessy!
I can vividly remember my freshman year RA warning me during orientation about how fast college would go by.
I am still wondering where freshman year went, let alone sophomore year and London. It was here a minute ago! Now they’re telling me I have to go home in a few weeks, er, well, more like days at this point. This is mysterious to me.
Anyways, this week was a rush of uneventfulness and projects and papers and internship stuff. My presentation on the Republic of Cyprus (or, thanks to Turkey, lackthereof) went well, my paper on Westminster perhaps less so. The weather has been gorgeous though, I walked home yesterday through the park and then stopped by the pond to read because I didn’t want to go inside. I am subsequently sporting a rosy glow that is in fact the first stages of sunburn. Only I could get sunburned in the British Isles.
This afternoon we leave for Scotland via train for the weekend. I am going to find the Loch Ness monster, which I have been preparing for ever since we did that ridiculously extensive reading unit on it in the fourth grade. Then we get back and muddle through a last week of classes before exams and before I know it I’ll be back in Philly. I’m struggling to wrap my head around that.
I am still wondering where freshman year went, let alone sophomore year and London. It was here a minute ago! Now they’re telling me I have to go home in a few weeks, er, well, more like days at this point. This is mysterious to me.
Anyways, this week was a rush of uneventfulness and projects and papers and internship stuff. My presentation on the Republic of Cyprus (or, thanks to Turkey, lackthereof) went well, my paper on Westminster perhaps less so. The weather has been gorgeous though, I walked home yesterday through the park and then stopped by the pond to read because I didn’t want to go inside. I am subsequently sporting a rosy glow that is in fact the first stages of sunburn. Only I could get sunburned in the British Isles.
This afternoon we leave for Scotland via train for the weekend. I am going to find the Loch Ness monster, which I have been preparing for ever since we did that ridiculously extensive reading unit on it in the fourth grade. Then we get back and muddle through a last week of classes before exams and before I know it I’ll be back in Philly. I’m struggling to wrap my head around that.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Turkish Cypriots
Eek far too far behind on blogging. Which has something to do with all the lovely people who’ve been visiting me and a great deal to do with the papers and presentations professors have been assigning essentially spur of the moment. Oh, why not lets have a twenty minute power point due next week. Sounds like great fun. No, don’t mention it at any point in the past few months, that’s alright, it would take the excitement out of it!
Anyways, the student council pub night went well. Friday I met up with the Milavecs for a meander around Picadilly and dinner before they saw Billy Elliot, which to my great disappointment they were disappointed by. Anne and I were going to just hang out at their hotel with a friend of hers from Denmark but she hadn’t seen Buckingham Palace, so we asked the concierge how long it would take us to walk there from Kensington. He told us not to try and that it would kill us and offered to hail us a cab. The concierge staff is excellent about hailing cabs, but of course we walked anyways. Barely an hour each way!
Times I have now walked obscene distances across London to Buckingham Palace for the sheer hell of it: twice.
Saturday we walked down Billionaire’s Row to Notting Hill Gate and wandered through Portobello Road market for a bit before heading back to Harrods again. Our attempts at dividing to conquer the girls swimsuits (Aunt Bonnie and Anna), men’s stationary (Uncle Stan and Julia), and souvenir shop (Anne and I) left us with extra time before we were supposed to reconvene, so we rode the Egyptian escalator all the way to the top of the store where we discovered that the eerie opera music we’d been hearing was not prerecorded but rather being sung live by a woman in a red bedazzled gown on one of the balconies.
Sunday I bid the Milavecs adieu as they caught their plane back to Philly and went to go meet up with the delightful Christy, my Pittsburgh roommate who is currently studying in Florence. We attempted to view the Victoria and Albert Museum but she’s sick of Renaissance art by now and I never cared for it to begin with so we settled on just catching up over tea for a bit before seeing the Tate Britain, which was really cool. Later we got Cadbury Cream Egg McFlurry’s (a true cultural phenomenon) and other British junk food and made grilled cheese and talked for hours.
So that’s some brief catching up for you. Now I return to contemplating the architectural significance of Westminster and the political implications of the admission of Cyprus into the EU.
Anyways, the student council pub night went well. Friday I met up with the Milavecs for a meander around Picadilly and dinner before they saw Billy Elliot, which to my great disappointment they were disappointed by. Anne and I were going to just hang out at their hotel with a friend of hers from Denmark but she hadn’t seen Buckingham Palace, so we asked the concierge how long it would take us to walk there from Kensington. He told us not to try and that it would kill us and offered to hail us a cab. The concierge staff is excellent about hailing cabs, but of course we walked anyways. Barely an hour each way!
Times I have now walked obscene distances across London to Buckingham Palace for the sheer hell of it: twice.
Saturday we walked down Billionaire’s Row to Notting Hill Gate and wandered through Portobello Road market for a bit before heading back to Harrods again. Our attempts at dividing to conquer the girls swimsuits (Aunt Bonnie and Anna), men’s stationary (Uncle Stan and Julia), and souvenir shop (Anne and I) left us with extra time before we were supposed to reconvene, so we rode the Egyptian escalator all the way to the top of the store where we discovered that the eerie opera music we’d been hearing was not prerecorded but rather being sung live by a woman in a red bedazzled gown on one of the balconies.
Sunday I bid the Milavecs adieu as they caught their plane back to Philly and went to go meet up with the delightful Christy, my Pittsburgh roommate who is currently studying in Florence. We attempted to view the Victoria and Albert Museum but she’s sick of Renaissance art by now and I never cared for it to begin with so we settled on just catching up over tea for a bit before seeing the Tate Britain, which was really cool. Later we got Cadbury Cream Egg McFlurry’s (a true cultural phenomenon) and other British junk food and made grilled cheese and talked for hours.
So that’s some brief catching up for you. Now I return to contemplating the architectural significance of Westminster and the political implications of the admission of Cyprus into the EU.
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