Wait--I actually have school

Womp womp. The dirty secret of studying abroad during the semester is that, miracle of miracles, not everyone is in the same boat as you. Most students at UCL are actually full-time English students. While most of my friends have had more contact with international affiliates thanks to scheduling, I feel like I've had quite enough academic contact with the English to satisfy me. I say quite enough because English accents are terrifyingly beautiful and make everything sound intelligent and I've never felt more American than when I have to speak up in my Restoration and 18th century literature class. Everyone has a much firmer background, since culturally, the English take literature more seriously, and it feels like everyone else is already 10 steps ahead simply by virtue of having grown up with a sincere respect for language (I'm not even going to start in on my lack of knowledge of English courtly and theatrical figureheads or which King beheaded which King married whose illegitimate bastard daughter). While I do find it frustrating to be coined the ignorant American, I can't argue with the sentiment that the English simply approach speech, writing, and literature with more adoration, a real love of concise expression. Perhaps that's only because I've been interacting mostly with Uni types....but I still feel intimidated. Being female and so direly less fashionable than my fellow English literature femme fatale types simply doesn't help.

This weekend, I will find myself in Amsterdam. The Monday I return, I have a paper due, and that week, I should've read 3 different books. When did I suddenly start attending school? I thought this was study abroad guys...they lied to me. There is reading.

I leave you with John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680), my favorite new author discovery, curtesy of the same Restoration lit class.

Wilmot was the Lady Gaga of his time: a libertine, cultural scandal, and master at subtle artistry. For example, here's one of my favorite poetic gems from the Earl of Rochester:

The Imperfect Enjoyment

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't:
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.

Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?"
She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart —
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made —
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower. 

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend. 

   And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
   To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

So a Dutchman walks into a pub...

And asks what I'm studying.

"English Literature," I respond, smiling politely.

He grins mischievously. "Nice to know some Americans are finally learning English."

Half shocked, half laughing, I ask him what he's studying.

"Maths" he replies, still smirking.

"Nice to know you Europeans are finally learning something to help your economy," I respond.

Da-dushhhhh.

Today, my father turned 50

And I am here, 5 hours and thousands of miles away, on a different continent, living a different life, and wanting everything and nothing all at once. He sounded sick on Skype, sounded weary of traveling, ready to eat dinner with the family he loves--he sounded like he missed his daughter.

She misses him too. She misses the way her family sounds on Sunday mornings-soft, like Church bells stifled by bed covers. She misses the way her mom speaks love in curfews, and the way her brother wants in whispers. She misses the way her father carries his cell phone like a burglar carries his gun-neccessary, and scared. My father's daughter, she wants home like the scent of flowers during winter, something so distant, it smells vaguely of fairy tales and storytimes. My father's daughter is waging a war with Yale's student--the jury is out, the winner is yet announced.

I'll get back to you with the score.

Societies, Cappuccinos, and Squares

To preface this entry, I should probably explain the way clubs work at UCL. Here, they are called "societies" across the board, and you pay an annual membership fee to be part of a club, plus whatever extra costs classes or events cost to attend. For example, for the Dance Society (or Dance Soc), you pay £10 a year and then you can go to as many free classes as you want. To contrast, for the Mountaineering Society (UCLMU), you pay £4 a year, but £7 every time you go to the climbing gym. So it varies, depending on the Society.

In the past week, I've attempted capoeira, Kickboxing, Young Writer's, Dance, Mountaineering, and Photo. I have Salsa and Yoga yet to attempt. Capoeira was a bitch on my legs, squats, jumping jacks, kicks, lunges--all to avoid getting kicked in the face the first day of class. But amazing, in a surreal, I-can-imagine-myself-doing-this-on-a-Brazilian-beach-during-the-sunset kind of way. Kickboxing wasn't fun enough to describe, although I did miss it. Young Writer's got me really excited to start writing with a group of people again, to have some accountability for producing work that is worth editing. It also got me excited to steal some editing practices from the Brits and returning to the U.S. full of new ideas for Teeth and Oye--but keep that one on the DL, don't want them knowing they have an American spy in their midst. Dance was fun today, realized I have lost all Ballet talent I once had, I still love Contemporary, and I might pick up street jazz-the teacher was this really cool woman with huge hair and the best body in the world. I want to look like her--thus, I will buy cool pants, and take her class. Bachata is tomorrow and Yoga on Wednesday, and I couldn't be more excited.

My mom is sending me my climbing gear, to go as regularly as I can. I met this awesome girl who loved it when we went, and I got an email from a guy in my hall who got my name from a mutual friend and found out I climbed from her. So I might have two belaying buddies--dale! I missed climbing, so much, the feeling of pushing yourself, the world falling away once you've climbed far enough, fighting the wall, fingers throbbing, knowing that someone will catch you but fighting the fall anyway. It's addicting. And it makes me feel powerful, to remember my body can be used like that. I miss that feeling--I have become soft and English majory since I got to college, and I miss have callouses and short nails and arms that can carry 4 grocery bags each. Having a body that is useful for something, not just comfortable as a pillow.

I also realized I can't have nothing to do, it drives me insane. And since I'm only here until December, I've filled my schedule with things to push my body, the only things that can be short term. And writing of course. But there will always be words, paid for in membership fees or stolen from my sheets, but they will remain. I miss them, sometimes. Like an old friend you grow nostalgic for, imagine the conversations you could have, and then let them drift again, things unsaid. I don't want to be that writer anymore. That is not a writer at all--a writer must produce, something I have always failed at.

Besides dancing today, I slept for a long time, after I realized during the contemporary class I may have pulled a thigh muscle. Improper stretching: don't do it. The nice thing was, though, I woke up to a shower and then a cappuccino with two girlfriends, one who had just returned from Spain. She told us of Madrid, of the squares, of Granada and Alhambra castle, of the history, the music, the people. I can't wait. My other friend mentioned Prague as a possibility for the weekend-I'm down. I've resigned myself to squandering my food money on plane tickets and living on pasta for the semester. It's all I can safely cook anywho. When the cafe closed--at 8, ridiculously early in true London fashion--we settled ourselves into a square with benches and strong lighting nearby, settled myself into J.D. Salinger's rich prep school settings and disenfranchised teenager voice. It felt comfortable, like home. Like a little more of the person I wanted to be, I wanted London to bring me closer to.

Tomorrow class begins again: my second week. Feet are cold, muscles slightly sore, tummy warm from pasta and mozzarella, and hopes high. Loving this, more each day.

Update, in a List

My dearest, faithful readership: I have failed you. I have become lazy and allowed London to sweep me off my keyboard and into a world of pubs and spontaneous discovery, and forgotten to track the experiences I promised I'd share. In a way, I suppose that means I have also failed myself.

I have spent the last few hours talking to Derrick Carr, who graduated last year, and looking through Peter Lu's blog , who I never knew, but writes the everyday into fascinating. Together, one knowingly and the other not, they have made me want to push myself to write more often, more clearly, with a goal in mind: to reach you, reader, concisely and in a semi-entertaining fashion. My dedication may only last until I fall asleep again tonight, but I hope it lasts a little longer. In any case, I will not bore you with a long, catch up post. Instead, here is my trip thus far, since I left you, in a list:

1. Dublin. Fucking. Rocks. Dublin castles, Dublin bars sans cover, Dublin accents, Dubliners (who will stop, mid road, and chase after you when they have given you wrong directions. Twice.), Irish countryside, with and without rain, and lets not forget, Dublin Oktoberfest. In the immortal words of Rebecca Black: fun, fun, fun, fun.

2. American English to English English go-to translations:
     a) line: queue
     b) bathroom: toilet
     c) trash: rubbish
     d) Thanks/be well/cool/goodbye: Cheers! (exclamation compulsory)
     e) Messed up: botched it
     edit: Also: hallway: corridor
     And many more I can't remember or haven't heard of yet.

3. Latin American Spanish to Spanish Spanish:
    a) fila: cola
    More, also, but less likely to remember at this hour. This one just strikes me as funny, since apparently there's is something up with the word "cola." In Venezuela, "dandole la cola a alguien" means you're giving someone a ride. Which would mean in Spain you're giving someone a line. Or, to me, you're giving them your ass. Heyyyy, colonialism.

4. Spanish girl: Oh, Hispanic people don't really talk Spanish. It's very ugly, not correct at all.
Me: That's so funny, because that's how I talk!
Spanish girl: Oh, I just meant it's different, right?
Me: Right! Except since there's more of us now, I'm not sure yours is more correct. *Cue beaming smile*

5. My low down on UCL Societies after first half of taster's fortnight:

Capoeira: rocks, but hurts. Will be returning.
Rock climbing: missed it, hard. Will be returning.
Kickboxing: crowded, but right downstairs. Meh.
Young Writer's Club: holds open mic nights and slams--British slams? Sign me UP.
Dance, Yoga, Bachata: Will get back to you.

6. Classes? I have classes? What? One of my professors didn't even show up for class, even after 30 minutes of us waiting for him. Other lectures have been mediocre, but also introductory. I hope they will get better, and they just might. My reading lists, which vary from 4-8 pages per class (I was told we weren't necessarily supposed to read everything but not really told what I was supposed to read) look entertaining at least.  Meh. Will update as soon as more information is gathered (slash, professors actually show up).

All in all, nothing too new, and yet everything new all at once, all the time. Loving living in a city, and London grows on me more and more, every day, cold and wet aside.

English Breakfast

Is an abuse to your stomach. Honest-to-God never touching English breakfast beans again. The bacon was great though :)

 My traditional English Breakfast. Looks suspect--only about 50% suspect though. 

A friend's eggs and chips. Strange combination, but the chips kept me going when I found I could only eat half my £8 breakfast.

Student Union University Pubs...

best idea ever. Draft beer at 2 pounds each, cheapest thus far, and none of the requisite pub old men.

Wondrous.