back in the u. s ... a.?

my original lofty goals of writing and keeping correspondence on a daily basis fell sadly to the wayside. i instead occupied my days in london with theater, parks, pubs, and well - of course - foot locker. but i won't defile my blog with such horrible images of the terrible trainer travesties here.

looking back on previous posts, i can't help but thing how starry-eyed and naive i was coming into this whole experience. what do i mean by that? to be honest, everything. not knowing london. not knowing really what laws, hall & associates consisted of. not knowing the proper ways to travel, to conduct oneself while in a foreign country, when NOT to eat that strangely tempting plate of unidentifiable food, when to say, "no thank you, that was my last pint." in short, i came to london (and europe) with as much book knowledge as i could hold, but with absolutely zero practical. if london was the SAT, i 'm pretty sure i'd flunk.

i always found it amusing when a passer-by would stop on the street and ask me for directions. it happened sometimes my first few weeks here, all the way up to my last. what was even more amusing was being able to actually tell that passer-by where trafalgar square is, or how to get to the tate modern, etc. etc. not to pat myself on the back, but it gave me a sense of accomplishment, that people thought i fit in enough to be their own personal mapquest.

my last two days were interesting, and i think i'll start with those first, as they're more in the foreground of my memory. long story short, i ended up canceling my previously scheduled european debauchery tour 2k7 due to friend's lack of funds and ability to travel conmigo, as well as my own dwindling bank account. which meant happily, or unhappily, i was to jetset back to the mighty midwest on monday. go figure my parents were in colorado at the time because they aren't psychic and couldn't gaze into the future's misty shadows to see my empty bank account. honestly. some times, parents are so infuriating.

in any case, this meant i needed somewhere to stay and somewhere to store my cumbersome backpack and overstuffed suitcase. cumbersome luggage? thank you, regent's college. somewhere to stay? not so easy. bridget and i tried to google some moderately priced hotels, but three things got in the way:

1. the fact that the reservation was the next day.
2. wimbledon. curse those white skirt/short wearing folk. except andy roddick. he's okay in my book.
3. the fact that it's london and NO hotels are moderately priced.

why not a hostel, though? oh, let me tell you why. ireland is why. paddywagon is why. while the general tour was great - you know, rocking and rolling around southern ireland for a weekend with some awesome friends, but the lodging ... well, let's just say i was strongly reminded of the time when i went to haiti, which happens to be a third-world-country. which meant at a particular place (paddy's palace in kilkarney) there was a general lack of toilet paper, working showers, and indoor plumbing. and french guys outside the window at 4am yelling in broken english to be let in.

this is why not hostel.

in the end, i sucked up my pride and took a tube to mornington crescent on saturday morning, where my hostel, goldman house, was. i was pleasantly surprised. loads of t.p. in the loo's, working (private!) showers, and not a shady frenchman in sight. however, this initial pleasure of being in a safe hostel wore off after my ten minute shower, and i got bored. really really bored. after being surrounded by people for the past six weeks, this was surreal. to be completely alone, with no set agenda, and many, many of the sights around london already X-ed off in my see it! london book. i missed the LHA kids. i missed regent's park. heck, i even missed the refectory. but, i told myself, "self, you need to keep a stiff upper-lip, and not mope around." so i didn't. i took the tube over to knightsbridge and lower kensington and spent most of the day in kensington gardens writing. there was also a time when i got horribly lost in the sidestreets of kensington, and i swear i found where they filmed 101 dalmations, but who can say? i also thought i snuck a peak at jude law, but that's just wishful thinking.

that night, i wasn't really in the mood to go out, and indeed had only myself and i as company. which meant watching old friends reruns in the hostel lobby. when - wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, i ended up talking to a girl - lindsey - in my very same predicament, and we became fast friends and decided to hit the pubs.

i took her to leicester square, since so many of my favourite things happen there...
-walkabout
-homeless man with binky-sucking dog
-street pizza
-the N18

we hit up a pub and chatted a bit, until anally, at 11, they kicked us out. lindsey and i wandered for a bit until we made it to the actual leicester square, where a bouncer pleaded for us to come to METRA.

in big shiny, pink and silver neon letters:

M
E
T
R
A
.

(closet homosexual?) at least that was my initial thought. but then again, it could just be the haven for the well-dressed, versace wearing, patent leather shoe polishing sexually ambiguous, and it's my motto to not slam it before you try it, so we went in. that is, we were going to, until a bouncer at the door demanded 18 quid a piece. (translation: $36 smackaroo's) it wasn't going to happen. so, using my newly found eloquence from the blarney stone, i talked my way into the club - for five quid. that's the first story i'm going to tell my grandchildren. "yes, george, paul, john, and ringo," (my offspring will all have rockstar names) "grams got into this nightclub in europe for a mere 5/18. now what percentage is that?"

lindsey and i ended up meeting these two blokes from manchester. i threw in my piece about being a huge manchester united fan, and then being temporarily deaf when they would want to discuss so-and-so's stats and whats-his-face's standings in the finals. i have since made it my goal to become honestly more interested in sports. because the smile and nod will only get you so far. and nobody likes talking about rococo in a bar. but then again, it was CLUB METRA, so who knows...

we will fast-forward to the next morning from there.

sunday was bittersweet. there's so much i still wanted to do, but then i thought, hey, you'll be back here slash living here soon, and why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free (so to speak). so instead of going into hypersonic tourist mode, i took the slightly classier route and wandered around london once more - strolling along bankside, being harassed by a robot (would i lie about that?) and then ...

... going to the flagship footlocker one.
last.
time.
i still had forty quid to use up, and a lack of presents for papa, so it made perfect sense.

monday i had to wake up at literally the crack of dawn. if i were staying on a farm, i would have beaten the roosters, that's how early i was. starbucks, my beloved starbucks, wasn't even open. i had to get to baker street, and then regent's to get my things, take a cab from there to victoria station, and from there board the gatwick express. from there, it was several escalators and trolleys later to the continental terminal, and from check in to security, from security to terminal A 63, and from there i could finally board the plane. all by 11:00.

oddly enough, things went rather smoothly, which is unexpected since everyone who knows me also knows that i'm not exactly miss prescision and order when it comes to deadlines. i always meet deadlines, but only just. my taxi driver, sam, was pretty much in love with me: he kept offering to drive me directly to gatwick - "only 70 pounds! but for you, 50!" he would say in broken english. i told him i was celibate. that was honestly the only thing that came to mind that early in the morning.

my worst experience was right before security. the guard made my throw out my water. i know, i know, it's protocal, blah blah blah, but crimeny! it's like 5 quid a bottle in the airport, and london's raped me financially anyways. i don't know why i get so defensive about a little bottle of water like that. i guess it's just one of those things. some texans admired my ballet flats. i worked on my short story. and that, friends, was my morning.

on the flight, i ended up getting a row of seats to myself. i didn't really believe in the blarney stone until then, but i was ready to do a jig of happiness - the window seat was broken and wouldn't recline, which meant the annoying american couple who couldn't stop sucking eachothers' faces for five minutes moved back a row and left me solo.

even if i'm flying solo, at least i'm flying free......

tacky? incredibly.

it was so surreal being back in the states. i'll be honest, i was not happy to land back in the humidity of cleveland. everythings so .... commonplace, so ordinary. which, i guess, is good to a certain extent, but things are also predictable, and i was worried i'd lose my experiences in the daily wind and grind of ohio. like london never happened, like it was just a very prologued, wonderful hallucination.

quote of the day: this is just how special my family is...
nate: i'll crap on you right here!
me: you better not, i know where you live!
mom: oh, kids, just drop it.
nate: i'll drop it ... right on her pants.

yeah, i know.