http://www.examiner.com/x-10097-Las-Vegas-Movie-Reviews-Examiner
In order to find some creative outlet and extra income, and also to focus on something other than my monstrosity of a dissertation, I’m now a Las Vegas Examiner, specializing in- what else?- entertainment. Please read up, favor, subscribe, etc. I get paid by page views and I plan on updating daily for the most part so add this link to your web-surfing routine please! Any and all comments are welcome 
Oh Bon Jovi, if only… I’m 3000 miles away from the place you’re talking about.
But that’s ok. I’m still back in the land of digital cable and Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. I spent Easter with my parents and I couldn’t be happier about it.
Due to a week-long bout with various types of illnesses, I did not get to update before I exited my beloved London. Nor did I have the opportunity to party like a rockstar before my departure. I didn’t even leave my room during my final weekend- a sad epitaph indeed. Papers, dissertation proposals, and presentations rooted me to my computer and the confines of Roehampton’s wireless access.
I’m happy to report, the final hours were somewhat uneventful. Mark was good enough to supply some blush wine for my final evening in Willow House, and we all sat around like real broke college students, playing poker with paper clips and stuffing ourselves full of MSG-laden products.
I said goodbye to my professors, flatmates, and friends and loaded my three huge suitcases into Gemma’s car with far more ease than I anticipated. No traffic on the early morning ride to Gatwick, no more than 90 quid for the extra suitcase, no freak snowstorms in Vegas and no flight delays. I called in my Barclays transfer at the gate, spent some time on the phone with close friends, and happily informed my mother that I’d be arriving as scheduled.
Somehow, the 10 hour flight was over in 8 hours flat. I don’t know how they managed to fly so much faster, but it was the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had in the friendly skies. Satiating red wine to wash down my Valium, Gu pudding, Twilight on loop (squee!), and a group of gorgeous men sitting not too far from me. They were more than happy to help me reach my carry on luggage which was sitauated far above my head, and showed real admiration when I managed to lift the 32kg jolly green giant suitcase from the luggage belt straight onto my cart all by myself. All that working out must have paid off.
Then as soon as I cleared customs, I started stripping. Off came the coat. Then the scarf. It was HOT OUT!!!! Sunglasses were immediately excavated from deep within my bag. I really did forget what it felt like to be warm. I packed the coat and scarves away, I won’t be needing them for awhile
I must admit, however, I miss UK produce. Cucumbers and tomatoes just don’t taste as good here. And I can’t stop saying “cheers” to people, at which point they just half-grin at me as though I’m slightly mad. I don’t mind. I’m happy I took my year in London and didn’t sell my soul to the grind too young. It’s high time I figure out my life, but I’m going to do it on my terms.
This time last year, I would never have expected I’d leave London willingly. I also never expected I’d be able to pack up and move there in three weeks flat. Somewhere along the line, I conquered any fears I ever had of failing. Sometimes you just have to be impulsive, and I will never consider anything about this year a mistake. Earning an MA is not small potatoes. But that’s not how I’ll remember my year at Roehampton. It’s the year I learned to cook, the year I discovered I really am a writer, and the year I internalized what my family truly means to me. I found out that despite my best efforts I just can’t fake it, no matter what “it” may be in any given situation.
For the first time in maybe forever, my life feels totally real. Maybe that’s because it’s in a slight state of disarray, but that leaves room for rearrangement. In closing this blog, it’s more of a Sopranoes ending than an Alias finale. Whatever comes next will just require another chapter.
One would think, after my last post, that I had to be exaggerating a little for optimal effect. But no, you just can’t write this stuff. In the past week, we’ve had even more random visitors of the XY-chromosone persuasion. One of them unlocked my deadbolted door as I was about to get in the shower.
Ironically, he was there to switch the nozzle. So I stood there, in my crimson towel, and politely informed him that a nice gentleman had already done so early that morning (while I again wrote articles and sipped coffee in my black pajamas).
Just a few days prior, home services rep Peter Webb (whom I guess we should know by name at this point) paraded into our common to “check on the condition of things.” I love how excruciatingly specific he was about that. I was editing the final draft of my critical review as he continually leaned over me to open and close windows with no apparant purpose. When my flatmate told him one of them was difficult to open, he gave her a quizzical look and moved on. So much for actaul maintenance.
Then on Friday morning, another random man was fiddling with the lightbulbs in our flat hallway. Come Friday night, none of them worked. Take one guess as to why not. These fools need to actually fix something, not break it.
I decided Friday night, after heading into central London for a Strada dinner with my friend Jaynie during her last day in town, to watch a French horror film in my room. Not the best idea when a trip to the common room resembled a spelunking expedition. Someone’s door opened and I jumped six feet. It was only Florence, but I’ve taken to using the little flashlight at the top of my mobile when going to the kitchen at night.
The weather’s been beyond lovely. Sunshine every morning, breezy temperatures, and everything’s coming up roses. This, of course, leads to bees. I’m keeping my windows closed lest they decide to fly in and make a hive for themselves, but it does seem like summer’s on the way, which always puts a smile (not a pouty smirk) on my face. Last Sunday I went for a little nature walk around Roehampton’s grounds to bask in the sorely-missed rays.
tomfoolery
campus Lime Tree Walk
I crammed a lot of living into a week which was supposed to be dominated by paper writing. Tuesday was St. Paddy’s Day, and bucking the tradition of big green hats, pints of beer, and loud pubs, Kat, Monica and I headed to Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Bar in Soho for some 1940s/50s fun and fancy dress.
channeling Lucille Ball
cool cats ready to jive and wail
Delicious cocktails and live music made the outing more than worthwhile.
I have uttered that phrase many times in many locations. The NYU Financial Aid Office. The NYU Bursar’s Office. Cheapskates’ coat check line. Starbucks at 9 am. My house on the 4th of July.
Never in all my years, however, have I found a place more fitting of the tagline than dear old Willow House. The goings-on in this building entice the mantra from my powerful lungs at least three times a week.
There is the weekly Tuesday morning fire alarm, which never ceases to annoy the hell out of me as I try to sleep in before my 4 pm class. My flatmates are routinely subjected to my round of improvised expletives as I attempt to reclaim my previous comatose state.
Last semester, the alarm rang every Tuesday at 9:30 am like clockwork, just around the time I needed to wake up anyway. But, in keeping with the theme of this term, it has become more objectionable than I remember. They’ve been setting it earlier and earlier each week, and testing it five or six times in a row so that my ear drums are assaulted not for 30 seconds, but for a full five minutes.
I would categorize this little arrangement as a recognized method of torture in most countries.
This week, with my friend Abe in town, the alarm went off at 7:15 am. It was his 21st birthday, and all he wanted was to sleep in. Trust the Willow House maintenance team to kill even the simplest of wishes. After three days of running around Paris, Abe arrived at Roehampton Monday night exhausted. Little more than 12 hours later, he looked at me with bleary eyes and wimpered, “Is this every morning?”
“No,” I replied. “Just on Tuesdays. My deepest apologies that I didn’t warn you about this.”
Sleep then hit us both over the head again, and we’d forgotten about it by the time we went to Mascalzone in Putney to celebrate this monumental birthday. Little did Abe know- he wasn’t done feeling the wrath of Willow’s inexplicable interruptions.
After dinner, I sipped some tea in the common room as he caught up on some TV finales on my computer. As I was taking my last gulp around 11:30 pm, that dreaded, saturating, vomit-enducing buzz filled the room. AGAIN. “WHYYY??!!” I shouted in fury. To Abe, the sound signified nothing. As I raced in my room to find shoes, my passport, phone, ipod, camera, and bag, he looked at me and asked “Can I finish the last five minutes of this episode?”
Now, we’ve previously endured a similar incident when the fire alarm sounded at 3 am. We all evacuated in a sinuous motion down the winding steps, only to find out someone pulled it and, of course, nothing was on fire. I could have let him sit there, but I felt a responsibility to make sure he made it out of London alive.
“I’d rather you not burn,” I implored. “Follow me.”
As we congregated in the courtyard, it spread quickly through the grapevine that someone left a sweater on the radiator in flat 1. Oh joy. And then the firetrucks pulled up! Kat and I craned our necks to see if any of the brave men in uniform were hot. They rushed right past us without even looking.
artsy, blurry shot of the approaching fire truck
And it’s never officially a pointless fire drill until Mark shows up in his distinctive slippers. He’s a cigar and glass of cognac away from becoming Mr. Boddy from Clue.
Mark's awesome slippers
The ridiculousness continued, of course. Every morning, our sweet, well-meaning cleaning woman arrives around 9 am and hoovers whether we like it or not. Don’t get me wrong, we appreciate her, but on days when I really need to sleep until about noon I HATE that vacuum. Since the walls are made of plastic, I can hear her when she’s in the kitchen at the other end of the hall, even if I put the “skip me” on my door.
Then there are the random men that frequently pop into our flat as though they live here and have the perfect right to barge right into our kitchen unannounced and start fiddling with a particular appliance.
They are usually here to perform mundane chores like testing the water, replacing lightbulbs, installing a new stove, or reattaching the lever to our window. The real issue is that six women live here, and none of us is very comfortable when some dude walks into the kitchen and we’re sitting in our pj’s. Usually, we just awkardly exit the common room and ignore them in the most polite way.
One morning around 10 am I was writing articles for my internship, a time-consuming process. So as I sat in my black pajamas (very decent and sleek) and researched current affairs with my morning coffee at my side, an older gentleman walked in and snidely remarked “Hope you’re enjoying your lie-in” as he made his way to the sink.
Now, I’d woken up early to start this work, and I’d never seen this person before in my life. Don’t ignite Italian fire that early. “Excuse me,” I forcefully interjected. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
He seemed affronted and didn’t feel the need to answer immediately. “I pay to live here and I don’t enjoy when strangers randomly walk in my kitchen,” I explained. Then he showed me his credentials and checked the fridge.
All these minor annoyances add up to form an intense dislike for my living conditions. Finally, we come to my favourite new obstacle in enjoying basic human rights: the shower situation. Last term, my scalp was scorched more often than not.
This term, the water’s constantly freezing. Whether you wake up at 7 am and need to hop in for work or come back from a gym visit at 9:30 at night, the water has about at 50/50 shot of being ice freaking cold. We all SO enjoy this. One week I had three cold showers. Penny walked into the common room complaining of one as this post was being written.
Call me high maintenance, but I believe it is a basic need to have a hot shower every day. The one day I couldn’t get one before work I was miserable. It’s not sanitary, and with the amount of money we pay to live here, we shouldn’t have to keep complaining. Someone should JUST FIX IT.
Needless to say, I’m looking forward to summer.
Whew. It is a testament to my organic diet and exercise regiment that I am still alive after the past week.
I declined the part of Motel 6 but still played Expedia.com, tour guide extraordinaire, Suzy Homemaker, Chef-ola, mommy, yente, transportation database, sex kitten, fashion maven, TimeOut spokeswoman, et al.
I was at the gym more than I was at the library the past week, and if you’re surprised then you don’t know me very well. I guess it was worth it (?)
I gave up cake for Lent. With the copious amounts of dark chocolate eaten around this flat, I decided not forego my old confectionary standby but instead narrow it down to a very specific subset of sweets, postgrad style.
Keeping with the theme of “dissertation,” here’s my attempt to wax philosophical on life and its structure and theoretical framework and all that jazz: no matter how many romantic comedies or Disney movies or Golden Hollywood epics one has been exposed to, we all know that the fairy tale does not actually exist. The most anyone can hope for is peace. And even the very blessed see little of that.
But there are moments, too rare and scrumptious to dare to fathom, that can sometimes befall you. They are to be cherished, captured and put in shiny orbs, shelved and polished and admired every six months or so, or when things start to go horribly wrong. These are the moments you are certain that a higher power loves you.
Sometimes the fairy tale creates itself around you. And it’s got the lifespan of a firework. You can barely take a photo of it for it’s so gut-wrenchingly short, so be smart enough walking into it to play the hero, not the villain. And for the love of all that is good and holy, don’t play the fool.
Once you choose the latter at the critical moment, beautiful things die around you. Flowers wilt. Clouds cover the sun. Doves weep at such stupidity. Tea goes cold.
Like any good saga, time feels as though it’s folded on itself. Worlds have collided. Locations loaded with symbolic meaning swirl thickly with expectations of fresh data and make room for new shiny orbs to reign beside the old ones.
Then, a work so close to having a monumental chapter written is suddenly cut short. The ending is perfunctory, not tragic, because at the end the players decided it didn’t even deserve one. It’s a shame when the leading lady shows up to meet Henry IV and gets Falstaff instead.
But at the end of it, pick up your bags and don’t look back. Purposefully exit stage left, hold your own, know your name, and go your own way. Regret nothing if your intentions were pure as you pursued the ever-elusive green light.
I got on that coach to Scotland Sunday night and realized I hadn’t eaten anything in three days. I also hadn’t achieved a decent rest in about a week. My face felt like it was on fire. A well-deserved cookie and some vitamin water quelled the flames, and I managed to pause the repeating montage in my head long enough to grab some deep breaths and find rest on the 9-hour journey.
gardens off Princes St.
Hello Edinburgh! It was cold and the sun never could really decide if it wanted to welcome us or not, but Gemma and I certainly made the most of our trip.
Scott Monument
We walked everywhere in the stunning, accessible city. Even our hostel wasn’t so bad, save for the gross doily they shrugged over our window.
I think I only heard about three Scottish accents in the whole two days. The managers of our hostel were Australian, most of the tourists sounded American, the one chatty bartender hailed from Canada, and the ingratiating bloke who chatted us up at Whistle Binky’s open mic night was Irish.
Scottish pub!
It was nice to be a traveller in an antique land again. I will never shy from the chance to hike through lush rolling hills, explore castles, or visit yet another cathedral.
St. Giles Cathedral
looking toward the Old Town
I love pouring over maps with Italian coffee and a panini (two things which, I’ve found, can be enjoyed at cheap prices in any city).
life source
As we drank in the vista of the Old Town from the side of the New Town, I was reminded of Heidelberg. Maybe it was because of the weather, or the architecture, or because I’d just gotten off a crowded coach. I was truly grateful for my digital camera. Documentation has been much easier since Christmas.
After basically a week out of my flat, I was ready to return to my little room in Willow House. I’d skipped class like a champion, done no homework, and neglected to call my family for days on end. Generally, I behaved like a typical 21-year-old, which is odd for me. I like when my rebel edge comes through though. So of course, on the way back as punishment, our coach had no heat. And it started to snow on the way out of Edinburgh. NINE HOURS in a plastic igloo. Hooray!
Exhaustion consumed me the minute I saw my bed.
the comfy side of the room
It was more than the travel at play. When you live for two decades feeling relatively few emotions, finding them can be…frightening. In the past week I sprinted the gamut… and I think I felt every degree of every single emotion that has ever been felt by a human being on this earth. The friction of such a frenzy was too much, and those pesky little feelings lit themselves on fire and burned to ashes. 
The verdict is still out on whether a phoenix shall rise any time in the near future.
Two presentations, two papers, two more visitors, a concert, and a partridge in a pear tree are going to be enough to distract me for the next month. I do my best work when I check my right-brained self at the door.
“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” ~Alfred Hitchcock
A few weeks before I left, one warm evening in early September, a wise woman told me some things that I didn’t necessarily want to hear.
They all came true.
She told me it wouldn’t be the end of the world, and she was right about that too. Apparently, she saw snow and something bad happening to me in an area I loved and was very comfortable with. That must have been the wallet-pilfering incident.
I was also told that the winter would be a time of great mental stress for me. Supposedly, I’d finally be forced to answer questions about what I really wanted and what would make me happy- and not what I thought the rest of the world would deem accpetable for a person like me. I would need to stop worrying about the general approval of others and start thinking about the kind of life I would want, once the dust particles of confusion and dismay finally settled inside my weary head.
And she surmised that I wouldn’t like the results of such questioning. Or rather, they would cause a few complications and exacerbate an already difficult situation.
I guess if I didn’t want to face these questions, I should never have gone home for Christmas. Despite my best efforts to force the contrary, I’m just one person. I can’t be five or six, and I can’t live three lives. I have to pick one. And I know I never want to have to fly home for the holidays again. I’m happiest around my family and on the east coast of the United States.
Losing all forms of identification will really force you start thinking about who and what you are. I am happy in London, but I just think I’d be happier if I were home with my parents. I’ve officially changed my mind about wanting to live abroad forever, I guess.
Yes, I realize my parents are in Vegas. But I can’t fix my finances until I go home thanks to my card companies’ international policies. And I actually really liked what I saw of the city, even if I don’t exactly blend on the west coast. I consulted my planners and realized that after term ends, I’d basically be staying here to write a paper. For someone as comfortable with independent research and syntax as I am, that just seemed silly.
Then my dad skyped me and told me he wanted me to come back for Easter. So last Sunday I managed to book the last flight available for that week from Gatwick to Vegas- I’m leaving April 9th, for good.
Don’t fall off your chair, I have a coherent plan this time. I’ve discussed this with my tutors and program director and they told me it’s quite a common procedure for postgrads to write their dissertations at home. I’m going to transfer the money in my Barclays account while I’m at the airport gate.
I’ve shifted my status at my internship to external writer. I’ll still maintain a professional relationship with EMMA and write articles for the website, but our communication will all be virtual. This will do wonders to cut down on my tube expenses and enable me to enjoy my last six weeks here. And I can smoothly transition into contributing to the company from Las Vegas.
Really, how many 21-year-olds get to spend the last few months of their first adult year in Sin City for free? I’m going to write my dissertation, hopefully get another internship, and be tan by May! I’ve already had a few eager visit proposals from friends. My car is sitting out there, washed, waxed, and ready for my arrival, and I can’t wait to get behind the wheel again and finally master highways.
The endgame is to find a good job, an apartment, and permanently relocate to the NY/NJ area by Halloween. Thanksgiving is cutting it too close. Sometimes you have to leave behind everything you have so you can come back and truly appreicate it. This time, I can graduate and look for a job with no possibility of regrets.
Before I leave, I’ve planned a trip to Scotland with my friend Gemma. I’ve wanted to go there for two years, and I know I’d kick myself if I left for the second time and didn’t go. We’re also going to take a day trip to Brighton right before I leave.
I have so many visitors that will be passing through in the coming weeks I fear this may be the last chance I have to write in this blog. Flat 3 has been so collectively swamped that we’ve barely seen each other for weeks on end. The lovely Kat did her best to rekindle flat unity and cooked us a savory french toast brunch this morning. Five of us managed to make it to Strada on Friday night for dinner, and that was a feat in and of itself. I will miss that pizza so much, as well as the torroncino affogato dessert.
In other news, tonight is the Oscar telecast. Here’s hoping I find someone as clever and determined as Drew to download a live feed. My boss expects a full recap by noon tomorrow (even though it doesn’t start until 1 am our time!), so at least I have a good reason to freak out if we can’t watch it.
This weekend, I went on a retreat to West Sussex with my church group. With all the drama that’s been plaguing my daily existence lately, I thought it a wise idea to escape London for the weekend and spend some time enjoying the peace of the English countryside.
As the snow began to fall (yes, again) on Friday evening, we made our way to Worth Abbey, a stunning 1500-year-old monastery.
Upon arrival, we went to prayer service, met some monks, and had a hearty homecooked meal. As we cozied up to the fireside in our little house for some pleasant getting-to-know you conversation over tea and biscuits, our assistant chaplain casually mentioned that we had Mass at 6:20 the next day. “Oh,” I said, “that gives us plenty of time to look around the 500 acres!”
“No, thats…am,” she confessed. You could have heard a pin drop. I hate waking up before noon, so you can be sure that this itinerary was not disclosed to me beforehand. As she extolled the virtues of early to bed and early to rise, all I could do was give thanks that I hadn’t chosen the very tempting FILTER COFFEE (squee!) they had sitting in the kitchen. I rushed myself to sleep, certain I’d never allow myself to get out of bed at such a sickeningly early hour. My kind roommate Vanessa made sure to wake me up in time, however, so there I was- walking outside in the snow before the sun even arose.
an historic moment- greeting the day at 6 am
The roads were iced over, but thankfully I’d worn my trusty (if slightly uncomfortable) Wellington boots. After a few calm and bleary-eyed hours, we had free time to explore the grounds. The land was muddy, but the picturesque views more than made up for it. I haven’t hiked that much since I climbed through those rocky national parks in Cinque Terre.
Not to get all philosophical, but it was really wonderful to have time alone for some spirituality and soul searching. I have not woken up two days in a row at 5:45 am since high school. I also don’t think I’ve gone two days without cursing since…8th grade? That sounds about right.
Monastic life requires discipline and stillness, becoming one with the silence around you and just listening. That’s what we did for 48 hours.
When we weren’t in the abbey, I willingly put my organic diet on pause to indulge in the filter coffee I so longed for, along with traditional English dishes like Yorkshire pudding.
The first night at dinner, one of the group asked me where I was from and I replied “Jersey,” just like I always do.
Across the table, one of the girls perked her head up and eyed me quizzically. “Really?” she pressed. “You don’t sound like it. You don’t have the accent.”
Aghast, I nearly dropped my fork, before I remembered that I was in a country that contained the city upon which New Jersey was probably named. I quickly corrected my mistake and she replied “Right, I’ll just say I’m from Full-Fat Old Jersey.”
“Original Recipe,” I countered. I’ll never think of the phrase “Jersey girls” quite the same way again.
Of course, once back in London, the wheels in my head began turning furiously trying to catch up with their normal Sunday night pace. Which internship to go to the next day? I’d accepted two, because I have no loyalty and that’s just how I roll. Thank God for choices and the semblance of free will we are afforded.
The online magazine that won’t even pay me travel expenses for a month off Tottenham Court Road? Or the one on the boat in which I have no title and may, at some point in the future, have to write about sex toys but will get paid travel expenses?
If you guessed the former- DING DING DING YOU ARE CORRECT!
www.emmainteractive.com – the website I write for, and now the focus of 90%of my waking hours
Despite the fact that it’s a longer commute which requires interfacing with the slow and saturated Piccadilly line AND starts a half hour earlier AND ends an hour later, I could not pass up an opportunity to write. And well, I guess that’s all I’m doing now. I write three days a week for 8 hours per day, and then I’m sent home with stuff to write. On the days I’m not working, I’m going to class. The weekends will be reserved for studying. I’ve bid my fond farewells to any hope I had of fun this term.
Today, I woke up at 7 am, and it didn’t seem so bad. I endured the commute. I wrote all day. I walked in my Italian boots as the rain poured down and paid the tube fare home before stopping at Tesco metro to finally buy food after days of having nothing on my fridge shelf. I came home, changed clothes, and went for a much-needed gym visit only to find that my earphones stopped working. So I had to run in silence.
Somehow, it didn’t seem so bad this time. I still managed 3.5k, even without having eaten dinner. When I got home, it was already half nine, and that is too late for a real supper. So I threw together some cheese and cucumber and hummus in a bowl and continued article writing in my room.
I mean, things aren’t terrible. I got the Joyful Joyful solo for the spring concert. I get to pretend I’m a soul sister again!! It will be the first time I get to do my kind of singing since… Leader of the Pack? Wow. I have a lovely TV in flat 7 that has been left at my disposal for weekly American Idol viewing. I’m pretty healthy, as are my loved ones.
Here’s the problem: all I can hear pulsating through the silence is the same thing I heard in that abbey, something I’ve been trying to tune out for awhile now, but it just keeps bubbling to the surface. I can hear the words being spoken to me over and over again: GO.HOME.
Christmas break didn’t really help matters. Crying relatives in an airport will break your heart any day of the week and twice on Sunday, which is the day I left.
I’ve wanted to heed that pair of words ever since my wallet was stolen. But really, I’ve been thinking them since the night I saw Jersey Boys.
Can I go home now? ::waves the white flag::
First, some much-needed sleep…
* It is possible my entire attitude will change in the next few days. I’m a mercurial 21-year-old, after all.
Things were going so well. A new internship,
new view from the HMS President
a happening social life, positive feedback on my first papers and dissertation idea- and then Friday happened. Let’s begin with the bad, shall we?
My wallet was stolen by a professional pickpocket in a London pub. I was at Trafalgar Square for my friend Jon’s birthday, and my bag was attached to me the whole night. After meeting some lovely new folks and indulging in some rose wine, I was ready to kick off the weekend and meet Kat at Tiger Tiger. As I reached in my bag to deposit my phone, I noticed my wallet wasn’t in its usual compartment. It wasn’t in the bag at all. Having just purchased a drink some time ago, I didn’t think it was really missing. I checked the bar- not there. Then the manager informed me, after viewing cctv footage, that I was, in fact, pickpocketed and “never even saw the guy, never even felt him put his hand in the bag. He was just too good.”
Well, that certainly made me feel better. Now we come to the ugly. I wanted to see this guy’s face since they had a clear shot of him. They wouldn’t let me. “You messed with the WRONG BITCH!” I deserve to see this man’s face, because should I ever run into him again, I can administer my own brand of justice- the Mucciarelli smackdown. Amused, the manager told me that was EXACTLY why I couldn’t see the footage. I was livid and intent on letting the whole place know what kind of shenanigans had just been pulled. So they called the police. By the time I got back to the table, the IPhone gang I was with had pulled up a bunch of numbers for me to call and cancel my credit cards. Cancel I did- Amex, my Commerce debit, and my Barclays debit. Fun fun. I also lost my NJ driver’s license, which sucks because that means the little weasel who stole my things has ALL my info- height, weight, dob, eye color, hair color, previous address, etc. I’m SO CREEPED OUT.
The rest of Friday night was spent at Charing Cross police station, whereupon I realized that mongrel also made off with a FULL NERO CARD. As my blood boiled beyond the point of comprehension, I thoroughly accounted the incident to the officer who typed out my info at a snail-like pace. I feel so violated. I have trouble sleeping at night, and I have no idea if there was anything in that wallet that had my current address on it. I’m so annoyed, I was ready to straighten out the finances and get on a plane back to the US. I’m just so exhausted.
The guy can keep the 30 quid he got from me. I loved that wallet. It has been through 4 countries with me. I cannot replace that. The lackadaisical attitude of the London police was beyond grating, so I told them their disregard for such crimes is exactly why they continue.
Then… it started to snow. And it still hasn’t stopped.
snowball fight in front of Willow House!
The city is silent; it looks like God dumped heaps of confectionary sugar all over us. I managed to charge my camera battery and take some video and photos, now if only I could figure out how to upload this stuff onto my computer I could share it with everyone.
Kat and I on the fountain behind Grove House
Here’s hoping by Wednesday public transport will be up and running again and I’ll be able to go to my new job on the Victoria Embankment, just a few minutes’ walk from St. Paul’s and my old stomping grounds in Farringdon. I’ll be writing web content and press cues for this new startup company on the HMS President. So I’ll be sitting on a boat, on the Thames, looking out at Parliament, Big Ben, and the Eye. I can’t lie – thieves aside, this really is the good life.
I would so love to beat that guy down though. OH man I’m such an angry little girl.
Yep, I’m officially back in London. Over the course of the past two years, I’ve flown back and forth to my personal green light 4 times. Why oh why did I not decide to join Virgin’s flying club until now??? Just a few more rounds and I get one free!
Jetlag has attached itself to me like white on rice. I’ve never had a problem adjusting to the time loss that occurs when I fly east, but the severe delay of my flight really did me in. It’s been almost a week and I’m still in the habit of rolling out of bed in the middle of the afternoon, feeling as though it’s early morning. This hangover of a sleep schedule meant I was waking up to an empty flat, cooking alone, and generally feeling disconnected for the first few days I was back. I spent such a long time away that I was vaguely…surprised that everything looked just as it did the crazy morning I departed. In the past four years it’s been rare to return to anything that looks remotely the same.
a little slice of my Willow House sanctuary
Weekends, for the most part, are just as I remember (see title). Kat, Florence and I braved the freezing temperatures to return to central London and our favourite place to relinquish personal space- Tiger Tiger. The new moon was out last night, and the crazies swarmed around us in all their intoxicated glory. After spending as much time in coat check as we did on the floor, witnessing a bar brawl and having glasses shatter around our feet, we collectively sighed and axed the place from future Saturday itineraries. Wardrobe will remain the same (again, see title)
London club gear
but I’d rather sport these ensembles in Fabric or someplace a bit more upscale, where they weed out the fetal Eurotrash and 40+ crowd ::shudder::
By Monday things should be back to normal. An early interview near Blackfriars will do well to slap me out of my new nocturnal lifestyle, and resuming gospel choir should instill a sense of normalcy to my existence. It would be nice to see daylight for more than an hour per day. Then it’s back to the grind on Wednesday in retail so I can afford to continue my pricy organic diet. Seriously, I’ve never felt better, so I’m fully willing to pay for all this food. Recommitting to my 5-day 3k running schedule might aid in kicking my narcoleptic habit. At the very least, it should tire me out enough to put me to bed before 5 in the morning.
As we waited for the 72 bus at 3 am, it started to snow, but not enough to stick. We contemplated buying a small space heater to transport with us on nights such as this. And maybe purchasing a collapsible tent we could pitch in Hammersmith as we waited. I suggested ordering a pizza to the bus stop as it would surely be more than the 20 minutes Domino’s promises for delivery. Then, in all our sobriety, we discussed Bedknobs and Broomsticks and how lovely it would be if our beds would just fly out of our flat and come pick us up. Clearly, the new moon had gotten to us as well.
Next to us, a couple more pants-less wonders of the bleached blonde persuasion were drunkenly fighting with some strangers and sloppily spilling into the streets. One of them let out a bloodcurdling scream as her boyfriend tried to calm her down. Was that really necessary? In this particular fieldwork study, I posit there is no direct correlation between the wearing of pants and the possessing of class.
So this is what it means to be an adult- going away on holiday and coming back to deal with all the elements of your life just how you left them. Sigh- it’s time to get to work.
But it’s just the price I pay, destiny is calling me to open up my eager eyes… cuz I’m Mr. Brightside…
*My sincere apologies to the blogosphere for being MIA over the past month. This is my London blog, therefore I only find it appropriate to post when I am residing in said location.
A huge chunk of update is necessary. Prepare yourself for a novella.
Let’s discuss December 19th. I fought with an airline. And I WON. 10 hours before my flight’s scheduled to depart for Vegas, with no food left in my flat, I get a text from Virgin Atlantic telling me the plane’s been delayed 36 hours. I was ready to go home days ago, and this was not some meager delay- it’s basically a cancellation. So I cried and furiously pounded my tiny ineffectual fists before some kind housemates suggested that I just call a cab, go straight to the airport and into battle.
My lovely flatmates were good enough to inform me that due to snowstorms in, of all places, Las Vegas (this really could ONLY happen to me) flights were grounded yesterday, but a plane would be departing for McCarran Airport at 9:45 am. If I had to sit on the pilot’s lap, I vowed to be on that flight. So 50 GBP later I get to Gatwick at 2 am, and no one’s at the desk. No one will be there until 5 am. SPLENDID. So I parked my tiny American ass in the front of the queue and seethed for 3 hours.
Then I unleashed some Italian fire on those bastards. I told them in no uncertain terms that they were to switch me onto that morning’s plane with no questions asked and no change in fare. I think laser beams may be have been shooting from my coffee and creme eyes at that point. Behind me were about 150 other angry passengers who wanted to leave for their holiday. So, due to my pre-sunrise display of epic bitchery, they decided one unpleasant conversation was enough. They took the double-decker plane out of the hanger and combined the two flights. All’s well that ends well. Valium+Shiraz= the most lovely 10-hour flight possible.
To my great delight, I found Vegas to be sunny if unseasonably cold (50 degrees F? I’ll take it and run). And run I did, up and down the Vegas strip in my bug-eye sunglasses. My most effective cardio was shopping, however. Thank you Dillards for putting all boots 65% off before Christmas 
Welcome home indeed!
I nearly cried with joy when I sipped my medium turbo cocunut iced coffee with cream and one splenda from Dunkin Donuts. Digital cable also flooded my body with endorphins. I managed to hit up a club or two, but my time there was pretty low key as it was mostly spent in the company of my displaced parental units. Like me, they just…do NOT blend in the affable ennui that defines the west coast. People in the public service grin at you and ask you how you are and what you’re up to, all the while looking sincerely interested and all I can think is what are you people on?? NO ONE IS THIS HAPPY! It’s like Prozac Nation out there. I can’t open my mouth without someone smirking and asking “You’re not from around here, are you?” Gee, whatever gave you that idea?
Even with ubiquitious strip malls, Vegas is relatively small, and it is definitely a desert. Go five miles off the strip and you’ll find that the place must have been designed by dyslexic carneys. There are no street signs, and sometimes there are street signs where there is no street at all. Sound weird? Go there, you’ll see what I mean. They also must be under the impression that the lights from the strip power the whole city, because the highways and back roads are so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face. I bought my dad a GPS for Christmas so he doesn’t get shot at during a road rage incident because believe me, it’s inevitable.
After 12 days on dry land it was back to the east coast. As I walked out of Newark Aiport’s Terminal A to greet Evan for what proved the be the perfect airport pickup, I noticed the streets smelled of piss and people were rude- AND I WAS HOME!! I felt like Dorothy back in Kansas. The Turnpike! 295! 42! I actually knew where I was again! Off to a diner for a Belgian waffle and Lacas coffee, and the familiarity was immediate. I knew I’d made the right choice to start the new year by returning to my roots.
295 to Philadelphia
Oh New Years Eve… it was exactly what I needed. I have no regrets, no questions, and no ghosts anymore. But in the interest of keeping things pretty (a major flaw in my software), I’m just going to leave it at that. Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind. How mind-blowingly appropriate of you, Ryan Seacrest, because 2009 will most certainly be different.
Then began Meghan’s USO Tour of Familial Goodwill. Such an excursion is necessary when your parents move like they’re on the lam or something and everyone else is understandably perturbed. Between my obligations to the Mucciarellis and the Ferraras in Trenton and Atlantic City,
my grandparents' WWII tree
respectfully, AND the approaching deadline for my Cultural Theory and Politics paper, I relinquished the rest of “break” or “holiday” as they call it in the UK and went into Yes-I-Will-Fix-It-Because-I-Can mode. It was eye-opening to say the least. I probably didn’t need to put all that responsibility on myself, but it’s as natural as drinking coffee or inhaling oxygen and I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember, so I wasn’t all that suprised when the calendar said January 15th and I hadn’t seen any movies or spent a night in the good ol’ T-W-P or made it anywhere close to NYC.
I just slept the next three days away and let the skin around my nails grow back. It was freezing, and I went into hibernation mode. To no one’s surprise but my extreme chagrin, it snowed the night I was supposed to depart. Instead of leaving at 9:25 pm, my plane took off around midnight. I cannot even begin to express how deeply I loathe sitting in airports alone. It just fills me with the worst possible feeling of isolation, pills or no pills. That’s why I dial everyone in my phone book while I’m sitting at the gate. Once onboard I can never be seated next to the hot Scottish guy, I’m always stuck in front of the smelly family with screaming, puking children. Midway through the flight I moved myself into business class (the rest of economy was full) because I refused to subject myself to any further assault on my olfactory nerves.
The sign next to the curtain said “business class only” and my expression must have signified “don’t even THINK about screwing with me” because the wiry flight attendant simply handed me an extra pillow and told me to have a “pleasant rest.”
The nap must not have been enough because I am severely jetlagged like never before. I had class at 4 today and woke up at 1. My body has no idea what time or day it is, and I can barely tell if I’m hungry. I still haven’t gone food shopping! I’m subsisting on water, coffee, and oatmeal.
Maybe I’m just getting lazy. Maybe I’m truly exhausted. I feel like a snake getting its second skin, like I need to stay still long enough to let the new me become a fully formed entity that can move and think on its own. Yet another incarnation is on the horizon. Once I get my MA, I’ve decided to move back to the east coast. I have no idea where yet, but just know now that it’s where I need to settle down once I get this travel bug out of my system.
