Future Ex-Pat

We’ve only stayed two nights here but I feel like a week has passed. Still, I really don’t feel like I’m in a foreign country. I’ve bought a new SIM card so I can make cheaper calls to the US and have decided to use the internet café across from the hotel.

We’ve spent most mornings being talked at by the stout little British man named Andrew who runs our program and a glamorous woman named Lynn who wears neat pleated skirt suits and reminds me of Julie Andrews. Yesterday we were visited by a member of the House of Lords, a Life Baron, who I’d love as a professor or grandfather. He gave us an enlightening talk, describing the British political system and social issues in between extended sessions of loud nose-blowing into his handkerchief. I’ve decided that I’d be content to become a British ex-pat. The British have a culture of irreverence and post-Christianism that is really appealing. Abortion is hardly an issue, nor capital punishment; the outcry in response to the latest act allowing gay civil unions to have the same rights as marriages was, “Oh, whatever.” 68% of young people in national polls list David Beckham as the most influential character in their life; only 2% name Jesus and 1% God. I could go on and on, but I already love this place.

The evenings we’ve had free. Most adults here hit the pubs right after work at about 5 and drink themselves drunk until 8; since we’re young and wild Americans, we haven’t gone out until 8 and stay out way late until the pubs close at 11. Everything’s expensive: a pint of the cheapest beer is the equivalent of about $5-$6. We’ve gotten carded everywhere because apparently we look under 18, but we flash our pearly American smiles that they’re so envious of as we hand them our IDs and they let us right in. I’ve been hanging out with a different group of people every night. Since tomorrow we don’t have to wake up, at all, I’m hoping to go to a club with some girls and actually stay out past midnight.

Today we saw a play by Emile Zola called Therese Raquin. Horrifying, terrifying. I wanted to shut my eyes through the entire second half but couldn’t. Not that it was graphic or gory, it was just, disturbing. It was French, after all, nothing less to be expected than the ripping apart of human existence.

St. Giles, London

Just arrived at the St. Giles Hotel in London, where I’ll be staying 4 nights. Massive amounts of luggage belonging to 80-some high-maintenance American students have been moving about the city of London and have finally been dispersed into their respective rooms. I personally am lugging two 47.5 pound suitcases, a 10 pound backpack and 6 pound “personal item.” The hotel is right across from an internet café, which I’ll be frequenting probably, a block away from the underground, and a few blocks from the local University College Hospital—basically, I’m all set. I’ve already made two calls from my cell phone to the US—laying down the foundations of what will be (by the end of my stay here) a monstrous bill. Dinner will be in 3 hours. I think I’ll take a nap now. The question of the day is: where are my pajamas?

Tazo Chai Tea lethargy

I’m stuck at the Newark Airport on a layover that was previously 4 hours long, and has been extended by an extra hour and a half because of flight delays. I was mooching off of the wireless from Continental’s Presidents’ Club, but someone must have figured out that they were broadcasting internet to the whole terminal and stopped it. Now I’m forced to finish my Tazo Chai tea at Starbucks that I bought in hopes that I could sit here writing in my blog while sipping tea, instead of walking around like a trucker with two huge bags in my new loud, black leather boots. Ouch.

Right now I don’t feel like I’m leaving the country at all. If anything, I feel like I’m going back to Yale. So far, I’ve been reminded of Yale by:

1. Being at the Newark airport. I feel like I should be sprinting down the concourse trying to claim my bags and catch the 3:05 Amtrak to New Haven.
2. Seeing large numbers of Jewish people. There aren’t many back in Hudson, Ohio.
3. Feeling exhausted and sleep-deprived.

Last time I was at an airport, I ended up in conversation with a man that was a chef at the airport bistro. First he annoyed me by explaining to me exactly how to go through airport security, as if I had never done it before, but then since we were walking in the same direction he struck up a less condescending line of conversation. It went something like,

Man: Where are you headed?
Me: Hawaii.
Man: California? I’m hoping to move out west sometime. Open up a restaurant.
Me: Oh? What kind of food?
Man: A little bit of everything. I want it to be an international restaurant. Are you Chinese?
Me: ... Yes.
Man: I want to go to China sometime. See how they cook over there.
Me: That’d be great.
Man: Then I want to go over to Europe, maybe France, see how they make things over there too. How old are you, 20?
Me: Yeah, just about.
Man: It’s been many years since I was 20. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.
Me: My name is Sue. What’s your name?
Man: I’m Melvin. Pleased to meet you.
Me: Pleased to meet you Melvin.

He proceeded to tell me about the type of food I could get at his Bistro, and what other food I could get at every other restaurant in the terminal, before we parted ways.

I’m done with my tea now; it’s time to truck myself back over to Terminal B. Click, click, click.

This blog is dedicated to Melvin, who seemed like a nice man.