Stranger than Fiction

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. 

The trip home usually proves to be the most noteworthy portion of the night.   The crazies always seem to find me on public transportation.  There was the man on the coach home from Scotland who played musical chairs with himself (thankfully never plopping down next to me) and wanted to talk to someone about buttered popcorn and manslaughter- and believe me, I could not invent that combination.  Last weekend on the way back from Camden this preacher-type was screaming at length about the conditions of Africa and how we’re all going to Hell.  My favorite part was his ear-splitting whistle, which would have been appreciated had it rendered me deaf and unable to hear him, instead of just leaving me with a migraine and the strange sensation that blood was pouring of one side of my head.  St. Paddy’s Day, the luck of the Irish eluded us and we were graced with one of the worst bus drivers I ever encountered.  As the N10 moved down Oxford St. the driver stopped short- very short- to avoid a dog which was in the road.  A good excuse if there ever was one, but the stop was so erratic that a woman fell into a window on the lower level and chipped off one of her front teeth.  That meant the police and an ambulance had to be called because of TFL regulations.  So we had a good 45 minutes of just sitting and watching Primark employees clean up chaotic remains of the previous day’s shopping before the next round of hooligans would invade the bargain bins.

Wednesday brought the end to my collegiate concert career.  I’m so happy I found GASP, without it I think I may have exploded.  I need to find some creative outlet once I’m in Vegas, because I’ve come the conclusion that my musical side is not only one of my definitive charactersitics but a part of myself I really like that brings me peace and joy.  Maybe I should share it with more people.  Penny, Randa, and Mark were on hand to offer support, and Mark, who has known me seven months now, just looked at me afterward and said “I had no idea you sang!  What a big voice you have!”

It really is a common reaction, because you either find out accidentally when I’m in the shower or someone who knew me in high school tells you. 

I’m so happy that I bowed out with my favorite gospel solo of all time, the opening to Joyful Joyful.  I wasn’t so thrilled that the concert took up 6 hours of my night and my paper wasn’t even finished.  Coffee came through in the clutch and I managed to complete a coherent argument and finish my internship articles before fatal fatigue set in.

Yesterday, after a much-needed gym visit, was devoted to one thing: bidding farewell to my most beloved London locales.  I took an afternoon trip into central, alighted at Farringdon station, and walked to St. Paul’s, which I haven’t returned to since the night before my departure nearly two years ago.  I love just sitting on the steps and people-watching.  I donned my sunglasses and a sleek up-do for my endeavour into psuedo-tourism.

My ipod and my camera were my only company, and that was just fine with me as I was, in essence, bidding farewell to a part of myself.  I feel as though the shadow of that hopeful 19-year-old undergrad is rooted in that hallowed ground of the streets from St. Paul’s to Bloomsbury.  What I really did on my way up Farringdon Rd. past Kamen House to Exmouth Market’s Cafe Nero was say goodbye to her, not those buildings.  

The structures aren’t going anywhere, though, and neither is she.  The nearly 22-year-old MA candidate is what’s mobile (though perhaps not travel-size anymore :p).  I’m grateful for that mobility, which is why I took those few hours to pay homage to the first part of me that discovered it.

But what I know now is even more powerful- location does not change who you are.  Moving certainly shapes you, and the experience of living out of your comfort zone and inside your dream is totally invaluable.  But the same person still steps off the plane, whether it’s at Heathrow, Newark, or McCarran.  There’s no need to fear losing yourself, because you couldn’t even if you wanted to.

And the things you love, you never lose.  They’re part of you.  I snapped a few pictures on my way through Clerkenwell yesterday.  No image could do justice to what that place means to me.  I put the camera away as I pounded the pavement up Theobald’s Rd. past the Bedford Boy’s old place to Russell Square, where the fountain’s finally on and gelato is being sold next to the President Hotel again. 

The old academic center was quiet on this sunny Saturday, so I took off to Tottenham Court Rd. up Charing Cross until I finally hit Piccadilly and stumbled upon great 15 quid seats for Sunset Boulevard at the Comedy Theatre.  It was a spontaneous decision, but an excellent one as  I realized I hadn’t seen a show in 2009 yet!  It will most likely be my final West End viewing for a few years, and I couldn’t be more pleased with my choice.  I never would have pictured Billy Wilder’s iconic film as a musical, but damn if Andrew Lloyd Webber couldn’t spin classic noir into something unforgettable.  I’m still humming the tunes this morning.

 

I can’t believe I leave in two and a half weeks, but oddly enough, I think I’ll actually be ready to go home this time. 

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