There’s something very sexy about getting a handwritten letter in the mail, so I’ve decided to get all 21st century on your arses and reflect on my London semester via the next best thing: a digital blog post written in the form of a letter. Addressed to whom, you ask? You, of course! Yes, you. Please accept these in place of pretty postcards boasting Photoshopped images of London’s most famed tourist attractions. You’re welcome. I know we’re both so green these days.
Forgive me for being short, but there’s a lot to say about my first week but not a lot of time in which to discuss it because I must figure out how to access Netflix and Hulu immediately.
My trip here was relatively uneventful. I took a nonstop flight from Washington, D.C. to London Heathrow, during which I sat next to a woman who smelled like an old-woman fart. I caught the end of this excuse for a movie called “Source Code,” fell asleep, and then proceeded to be both financially and emotionally robbed at the London airport by the international conversion fee.
In short, my first couple days required very little adjustment because living in one city makes it easier to get settled in another. Also, London isn’t terribly different from New York. It’s just a lot more expensive and a lot more architecturally schizophrenic. I easily navigated to my first few days of orientation in a building that was used in the Batman movies. Moreover, I survived these few days of orientation by pretending I was an extra in these aforementioned Batman movies. This made things more exciting, as at any moment I could’ve been spontaneously attacked by the anarchist yet wickedly awesome Joker! I was also tricked into being cooked on a hot bus for five hours while visiting London’s big touristy sites, but the upside to the trauma is I got to go through all the pictures on the iPad of my new friend, Kelly. Then we became best friends.
After an unsurprisingly otherworldly meal at IKEA, we had our first night out. We went to a club called G-A-Y. It was a gay club. As we arrived, I was quickly ushered to the metal detector on the right side like a celebrity while my female friends got held up on the left side. This was sexual discrimination in action, but I liked it. Then I danced around like a drunk girl and befriended Michael, the security guard outside who introduced me to my new favorite show, “The Only Way Is Essex.” (Think “The Hills,” but in the UK and with a pig named Mr. Darcy.)
My second night out was…well we don’t talk about this night. It’s lit-ra-lly [said in a British accent] a non-memory. The next day I took a redemptive day trip with my Kelly and my new BBC friend Juan. We took the train to Brighton, where it was grey and rainy and so “Never Let Me Go.” I loved it. We survived a roller coaster,
jumped on trampolines, and got to see the bachelor pad of 21-year-old King George IV. He had dragons on his ceiling like a pimp! We also enjoyed an Italian dinner with profiteroles that were otherworldly but not of the same other world as the IKEA meal because the IKEA meal was better.
Then classes started. So far I’ve only had Writing For TV, which is taught by a wonderful British man named Archie. Today we pitched our ideas for the pilot of an original TV show. It was bullets of fun. I’m also in a class called Arts and Theater in London. In addition to going to a museum and a theater performance each week, we attend lectures about lots of things and stuff. Today we received a packet about the Normans and the Plantagenets! What a funny name!
Calm down, you. I know what you’re thinking. So, as a person, how have I grown since moving across the pond? Good question. Kelly took me to the local grocery store and taught me how to buy food, so basically I won ten Maturity points. I can now make a salad out of spinach leaves, dried cranberries, feta cheese, and two teaspoons of anxiety.
My apologies for composing this blog post (read: sexy old-fashioned letter) with the literacy of an elementary school child.
Until next time…