Morocco: Getting There is Half the Battle!

I should really start blogging about my Moroccan experience, don’t you think? So, here goes…

Technically speaking, my journey began on 7 March 2012. I say this because I woke-up at about 8 AM that morning so that I could start working on some last minute things (like, you know, packing and figuring out how to get to Stansted Airport from where I’m living), and I didn’t go to sleep again until the 9^th. But more on that later...

Nerves prevented even a brief nap prior to heading out for the airport, so that when I arrived at Stansted at about 3:30 AM on the 8^th I was already tired. Nonetheless, I successfully checked-in, passed through security (after being told to throw away my hair gel for security reasons), and worked my way onto the plane for a 6 AM take-off. 

(Yes, I’m one of ‘those’ people who gets to the airport at least two hours prior to a flight—this is, in part, due to a bad experience coming back from Ohio once wherein I almost missed my flight and lost a Whoopie Goldberg action figure while rushing down the concourse…but that’s a story for another time.) 

For the record, sleep did not come on the airplane either. Again, nerves were a factor—but this time there was the added ‘bonus’ of screaming, kicking children in the seat next to me and Ryanair’s insistence on promoting their ‘buy on board’ program over the P.A. system. Whatevs.

At any rate, about 4 hours later the plane was descending toward Marrakech. I was able to snag a few photos of the African landscape before one of the stewards snapped at me to turn the camera off. (I guess I missed the announcement that all electronic devices had to be turned off). Sadly, this means that I was unable to capture the most amazing image that I saw on the way in: the Atlas Mountains stretched out alongside Marrakech. Nonetheless, I love the photos that I was able to get, one of which you can see below:

The Moroccan landscape near Marrakech.

Upon arriving at Menara Airport I breezed through customs, and quickly made the switch from Euros to Moroccan Dirham (DH). Yes, I know you shouldn't convert money at the airport, but it's almost impossible to find someplace that will 'legally' convert to Dirhams in London—

As a quick side-note about the money: I sucked at using it effectively, namely because I was always having to convert prices in my mind into Euros and from there into US Dollars. This shouldn’t have been as complicated for me as it was—especially since 1€ = 10DH—but I was working on very little sleep the entire time! And this was on top of having to haggle over most prices, which I’m equally inept at. So don’t judge me when I start discussing some of my…less advisable financial decisions in a bit.

—At any rate, despite the fact that breezed through the arrival and visa process really quickly, it actually took me about 30 more minutes to work up the nerve to actually leave the airport. 

Yup, you read that right. 

In fact, I was so intimidated at that point by what might happen (I foolishly watched the AbFab ‘Morocco’ episode an hour before leaving for the airport) that I legitimately contemplated never leaving the airport.

What did I do during those 30 minutes you ask? Well, first I walked around the shops. And then I made my way out toward the taxi stand…but chickened out and circled back. Next I found a place to get some food and a map (which I never used). Then, finally, I made a second attempt at getting a cab. This second attempt at grabbing a cab was a bit more successful. 

However, all of the cabs were being coordinated by a single man who, after finding out where I was going, set the price at 200DH (20€; $40). This might not have been a bad price…if I was going more than 6km. Nonetheless, I was tired and lost, and so I agreed. (For the record, I tried to talk the driver down while en route, but to no avail—he wouldn’t go against the other man.)

The ride toward the hostel wasn’t bad. My driver was moderately fluent in English, and was able to point out sites as we drove around, and the contrasting imagery of brown buildings, palm trees, and distant snowcapped mountains was incredible. 

Two things worth noting about the ride, however:

(1) The road was clearly divided between incoming and outgoing traffic…but there weren’t any (visible) sub-divisions, meaning that each side had about three lanes’ worth of traffic (cars, buses, motorbikes, pedestrians, and donkeys with carts) weaving in and out amongst each other. That was a bit disconcerting at first—but I can honestly say that I didn’t see any accidents, and it all somehow worked.

(2) As we pulled up at one of the only stoplights between the airport and my hostel, and the driver was pointing out the wall surrounding the medina quarter (the older, fortified section of Marrakech, in which I was staying), there was a tremendous explosion!

Yes, explosion!

It was so jarring, that the driver and I both dropped in our seats and covered our heads (and probably loosed an explicative or two)…only to realize a moment later that we were stopped next to a construction site using dynamite. Sigh. Some kind of warning would have been nice, but at least it added an interesting side-story to the start my adventure. 

[NB: This is not my photo!]

Following that bit of excitement, it was only a few more minutes until the cab pulled to a stop. Now, we weren’t quite at the hostel yet, but cars are not allowed into the medina because the streets are so narrow and densely packed. 

But, I was prepared for this, and had directions from the hostel telling me how to get there from the drop-off point...

Unfortunately, the cab driver had other ideas, and whistled to a friend of his that was ‘conveniently’ standing not far away.

My driver told the man where I was going, and instructed him to take me there. I was also prepared for this eventuality, though, having read on another traveler’s blog about a similar experience that wound up costing them over 200DH. So, after paying for my cab and grabbing my bag (before the second man could throw it into his cart), I told UnwantedGuide-Man that I was not in need of his services and that I knew where I was going. 

But UnwantedGuide-Man nonetheless took the lead (headed in the direction which I knew I, too, had to go), and kept telling me that his services were free and that he would just show me where to go. No charge. 

(Sounding familiar? Perhaps you’re finding this reminiscent of my experience at the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur? Me too.)

In hindsight, it’s probably good that UnwantedGuide-Man was there, because even with directions I would have probably gotten lost. At the time, however, I was merely annoyed by his presence because I knew where this was leading (in both the actual and metaphorical senses). I kept telling UnwantedGuide-Man that I really didn’t need his services, and that I didn’t have the money to pay him.

‘No, no, no—it’s free! Come, come…’

M'mm-hmmm.

Sure enough, 5 minutes later we were standing before the door of my hostel and he was demanding 200DH. 

Regretfully, the entrance to my hostel was tucked into a very tight, very dark alleyway, and in that moment I was pretty intimidated since there was no one else around, and UnwantedGuide-Man was very physically imposing—also, it was taking forever for someone to answer the hostel’s door. I reminded UnwantedGuide-Man that I didn’t have the money to pay, but he kept pushing. Eventually, I (very reluctantly) parted with 100DH as a means of finally getting rid of him…and of course, the door just so happened to open at that exact moment, too. Funny that.

So, there you have the beginning of Moroccan experience—it gets a lot more fun and a lot less extortiony soon, I promise!

Paris: Endings and Things

So, I figure: what better way to get everything off of my ‘To Do’ list than by taking time out to write one last blog entry about my Parisian experience? I mean, doing so has been looming over my head—sure, it’s not as important as my midterm essays, but… 

Aww, screw it!  

Who am I kidding? I just want to put the academics away for a bit and focus on some of the fun things I’ve done recently. Plus, I want to blog about my Moroccan adventure, but can’t until I finish with France.

With that said, let’s get right down to it:

On 20 February 2012, after leaving the Eiffel Tower, I made my way to Père Lachaise Cemetery. That’s right, I spent part of my holiday in the world’s (ostensibly) most romantic city in a cemetery—in fact, it’s such a big cemetery, and there were so many people to ‘visit’ that I wound up going back on the 21^st prior to boarding the bus back to London. (In all fairness, the second trip was more the result of logistics—Père Lachaise is only one metro stop away from the bus station.)

Amongst the 1,000,000 bodies who are interred at Père Lachaise are some of the world’s most notable authors and artists. Since I don’t personally know anyone buried there, it was obviously these famous figures that I was interested in.

So who’d I see, you ask? Well, let’s see…

The first one I found was Isadora Duncan. Now, I confess that I don’t really know much about Ms. Duncan beyond the fact that she was a famous dancer. However, I had heard Nic talk about her before, and so I knew she was someone important to him. With that in mind, I crossed my fingers and tried the camera again, hoping there would be enough ‘juice’ left in the battery to get at least a photo for him—miraculously, not only did it give me enough power to snag the photo of Ms. Duncan’s burial spot, but also all of the others that followed over the next two days! Success!

NB: This is not my photo!

After Ms. Duncan, I made my way to the next ‘big’ name on my list: that queer, literary mastermind Oscar Wilde. Now, you’ll notice that there’s a plastic casing surrounding his marker. That’s because there was a tradition of people donning lipstick and kissing/writing messages on the stone. After a while, this began to take its toll on the gravesite, and so they’ve enclosed it within said-protective plastic. I didn’t have any lipstick on me (and had no clue how to ask for some in French), so I just took a quick self-photo alongside the resting place of Dorian Gray’s creator.

NB: This is not my photo!

Exhausted and praying the camera doesn't die!

 Next up: Edith Piaf. Most Americans only know of Ms. Piaf through her famous song ‘La Vie En Rose’ (and admittedly, that was my first exposure to her). But she also led an incredibly fascinating and tragic life. Also, for the record, I like ‘Jezebel’ a bit more than the earlier mentioned song.

The lyrics to 'Le Vie En Rose' are on the green sheet.

Sarah Bernhardt was next. As with Isadora Duncan, my connection to Ms. Bernhardt is a bit more tangential. I knew that she was a silent-movie era actress known for being overly dramatic, but the main draw here (for me) was that we used to refer to my little sister as ‘little Miss Sarah Bernhardt’ when she would throw temper-tantrums and whatnot. (Although, according to my Mom, she called my sister that because her own grandparents had called her that at the same age.)

The other two graves I visited on the 20^th—Jim Morrison and Frederic Chopin—weren’t ones that I necessarily ‘cared’ about per se. I just felt like I should since I was there.

NB: This is not my photo!

NB: This is not my photo!

Shortly after finding Mr. Chopin’s grave, I was kicked out of the cemetery because it was closing time. This was done by a creepy guy who just appeared out of nowhere while I was walking between some graves and told me that the sun was setting and I would have to leave. Not totally convinced that he wasn’t part of the walking dead himself, I did as instructed, returning to the hostel on painfully sore feet—there was certainly no going back out that night because I could barely stand, and so I just watched the French version of ‘Cops’ (which focuses on firefighters instead). 

As I mentioned before, I didn’t have much time on the 21^st to do anything, and so I returned to Père Lachaise for my last hour or two in Paris. This enabled me to snag some of the interred folks I had looked for but was unable to find the day before. That day’s batch included:

The world’s most famous mime—Marcel Marceau—who I remember mostly from I Love Lucy (though I can’t find any record of him ever appearing on there, so maybe they just talked about him?)

NB: This is not my photo!

Mr. Marceau was followed by Richard Wright, the author of Native Son. I actually just read Native Son last semester for my Fiction I class, and it’s an amazing book (albeit very difficult to get through—but then, that’s part of what makes it so amazing). Mr. Wright also shared a friendship (for a time) with another American author living in Paris whose work I read last semester: James Baldwin. (Still more interesting is that Mr. Baldwin wrote Giovanni’s Room, after which my Parisian hostel was named.) Sadly, Mr. Wright’s ashes are interred in a very inaccessible, easy to overlook spot beside a staircase.

NB: This is not my photo!

Quite by accident, I stumbled upon the painter Max Ernst’s resting place as I was walking away from Mr. Wright’s.

NB: This is not my photo!

And finally, I found the frustratingly elusive last two on my list: Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, the world’s most famous literary lesbians—

Sorry, I have to interrupt for a moment to do this: 

“They were quite regularly gay there, Helen Furr and Georgine Skeene, they were regularly gay there where they were gay. They were very regularly gay. To be regularly gay was to do every day the gay thing that they did every day. To be regularly gay was to end every day at the same time after they had been regularly gay. They were regularly gay. They were gay every day. They ended every day in the same way, at the same time, and they had been every day regularly gay…” ~ Stein, “Miss Furr and Miss Skeene”

—Now, admittedly, I’m not a fan of Stein’s work (which I quoted above). But, I cannot detract from the headway she made in the world in terms of living an openly gay life.

In that vein, I was surprised at first to find Ms. Stein buried by herself. It was well known, even while they were living, that she and Ms. Toklas were living together as partners-in-life. And yet, Ms. Toklas was nowhere to be found. 

 

At first I was very upset—how could they have separated them at the end?

But then, as I was walking away, something caught my eye: Ms. Toklas’ information actually was listed on the stone (albeit on the back), meaning that they were buried together. Crisis solved, and now I could have my Awwww moment, followed by my professing my sincerest thanks for my predecessors’ (including Wilde’s and Baldwin’s) efforts to make my life today a little easier.

Stein (l) and Toklas (r). [NB: This is not my photo!]

Stein's Side

Toklas' Side

Also worth noting at Père Lachaise were the memorials seen below. I found them to be incredibly striking in their grotesqueness, especially when hit by the setting sun.

And so, for all intents and purposes, my trip to Paris comes to a close. Fitting, I think, to do so with an entry dedicated to a cemetery. In case you were wondering (which you probably weren’t), nothing all that interesting happened on the ride back to London. There was a bit of drama at the border (one guy was detained, and I almost missed the bus because I was stuck at the back of the line), but in the end I made it!

Will I ever return? I wouldn’t necessarily rush back, but I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity either. However, I did fall in love with Montmartre, and I really enjoyed the Louvre and what I saw of the Pompidou—ooh, and the crepes!—and so I would definitely return to those parts of Paris!

Paris or Bust...By Bus!

I suppose I should start blogging about my Paris experience while it’s fresh on my mind. The problem is, there’s just so much to say that I don’t know where to begin. So, I think I’m just going to break it up day-by-day and in chunks, and take it from there…

18 February 2012:

Saturday morning started at O’Dark Early as my old friend and coworker Teresa used to say. The bus that was to take me from London to Paris was scheduled to depart Victoria Coach Station at 8:00 AM, but I was supposed to be there by 7:00 AM. Under normal circumstances, it would only take me about 50 minutes to get to Victoria Coach Station from where I'm living—except, the city’s transportation authority decided to shut down a portion of the District Line between my flat and the station. Fortunately I found out the day before, and was able to plan an alternate route by bus.

Yes, the bus. 

Now, almost everyone in my immediate circle knows how much I detest the bus, and they also know that I will usually take whatever out-of-the-way routes are possible to avoid taking the slowest, most irritating form of transportation (that was surely developed by the Marquis de Sade) ever concocted! Nonetheless, at such an early hour, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and climbed aboard a friggin’ bus. 

Over an hour later, I was finally at the station and, finally, at about 8:10 AM, we set off for Paris!

From Victoria Coach station, we crossed over to the ‘southside’ of London and down through Lewisham. (In fact, we passed near Blackheath, and I even saw the side-road where KG&MM lived when Nic and I stayed with them back in 2008!) From there we headed toward Kent, passing within 6km of the beautiful Leeds Castle, and then on to Dover (though, sadly, I was not able to see the famous cliffs).

Our Approximate Route Across England

At Dover, we approached the entrance to the chunnel (a.k.a.the channel tunnel), where we encountered the following sign, leading to generalized excitement amongst the passengers:

'Lies, Damned Lies And Statistics!' ~ Benjamin Disraeli

However, said-sign was misleading: first we had to go through the border crossing process (which, in hindsight, took far less time that the nightmarish crossing back—but that’s a post for later). We sat in front of this sign for about 20 minutes, at which point two agents from the UK Home Office finally boarded the bus. We were all told to give them our passports, which they collected and disappeared with for another 20 minutes or so. Eventually, the agents returned and gave our passports back to us with the appropriate stamps in-place.

Cleared, the bus was allowed to move toward the chunnel. Now, I don’t really know what I expected the channel tunnel to be like, but it was nothing like what I encountered. I suppose I had a vague assumption that it would kind of be like a regular tunnel—you know, like the kind that cuts through a mountain, or the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel or something—and the bus would just drive through.

I was wrong.

The area was like some kind of bizarre mining operation—or, perhaps a better example, like the Fright Zone from the ‘She-Ra’ cartoon!

Inspiration for the channel tunnel?

There were tracks as far as the eye could see, and these massive train cars—tall enough to hold either two rows of cars stacked on top of each other, or conversely a single row of double-decker buses. 

I watched with a profound sense of wonder as our bus actually maneuvered its way into one of the giant cars, and we settled in for the crossing.

Once we were loaded up and en route, we were free to move about the train. Of course, there wasn’t much to see—the windows looked out onto a dark tunnel, no different from a typical subway—and the only places to go were the bathrooms at either end of the massive train. Nonetheless, I got out and walked around for the sheer fact of the experience.

Now, some things worth noting about the undersea journey between England and France:

1. Yes, your ears do pop a bit.
2. To pass between the massive cars, you have to press this scary looking red button for two seconds which, I guess, equalizes the pressure between the cars long enough for you to cross between them.
3. There are these lovely placards everywhere that tell you what to do in case of an emergency, and they are accompanied by a lovely graphic (drawn in a sedate, calming blue) of the train pausing at a special ‘emergency access tunnel’ between train lines, and letting off a bunch of happy, walking passengers in an orderly fashion. Upon seeing this image, I couldn't help laughing because I remembered the airplane scene in Fight Club and pictured the chaos that would ensue should there be an actual emergency—you know, like 250 feet-worth of water crashing down on top of us!

Fortunately, there were no emergencies, and we emerged on the other side successfully and, at last, I caught my first sign of the European continent!

Calais, France, the town in which we (basically) emerged, looked to be a charming place from what little I could see of it from afar. And there were old steeples absolutely everywhere! The effect was quite pretty.

However, I must confess something here, as it was around the time of our emerging from the channel tunnel when I had this realization: 

France smells, Now, I know that’s a positively horrid thing of me to say, and I’m sure a great many people worldwide would say the same about the US. But, whereas (for instance) Ireland was possessed by a pleasingly sweet scent, which danced in the air and just slightly graced one’s nosehairs every now and again, France was filled with a heady, somewhat overpowering perfume-like smell. You know the kind I mean—that stuff the older ladies in Atlantic City use. And there was no dancing in the air or graceful tickling with this stuff—it hit you in the face like a can-can dancer’s…well, I digress…

But enough about unpleasant odors...

Within about twenty minutes, we had started the longest part of our journey—about three hours through Northern France’s countryside. I wish I could regale you with tales of its beauty, but—owing to the time of year, and rainy weather—there wasn’t much to see. 

Honestly, it kind of reminded me a bit of a cross between Montross, Virginia, and Galway, Ireland. And many of the houses were somewhat reminiscent of the Dickens Village houses you see at Christmastime: tall and skinny, with angular roofs. Immediately, the song ‘Little Town’ from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast came to mind:

 

 

In fact, after watching the above video in setting up this entry, I realize just how accurate my initial recollection and comparison of the architecture was.

Aside from these occasional ‘provincial’ towns, the only other things worth noting from this portion of the journey are a preponderance of high-speed trains (why, oh why, don’t we have these in the US yet?), and a breathtaking glimpse I had about 40km from Paris of two people in full, navy-blue horseback riding kit galloping down a steep hill atop their beautiful horses!

Eventually, the bus reached our penultimate stop: Charles de Gaulle Airport. Now, I didn’t get off at this stop, but I kind of which I had. It was a huge facility, and designed in such a way that it was like being in a giant honeycomb—or maybe an ant’s hive is a better comparison. The roadways were all massive, looping and corkscrewing! And neither time I was there—either on the way in to Paris, or on the way back to London—did the drop-off and pick-up area seem clogged, no doubt owing to this ingenious layout! It really was stunning! (Of course, much like the traffic circles in London, I’m sure this is an engineering marvel that simply wouldn’t work in the US because we’re too stupid to use it properly.)

After leaving Charles de Gaulle, it took about 20 minutes to reach Gallieni, where I debarked. (FYI: according to Wikipedia, Gallieni is named after General Joseph Gallieni, who commandeered 600 taxis in order to get his troops to 1914’s First Battle of the Marne. Don’t know if that’s true, but—if it is—it’s an interesting story!)

And now that I was in Gallieni, it was time for my Parisian adventure to begin...

UEL Orientation (Day 1 of 3)

Well, today was the big day: orientation at UEL (part 1 of 3); and, it went very well! Now sit right back and allow me to regale you (bore you?) with the day’s adventures…

It all started, as no morning ever should, at 4:58 AM GMT, when I woke up for no freakin’ reason. I mean, seriously, I had another hour-and-a-half in which I could have rested. Alas, it was not meant to be. So, I tossed and turned for a bit, until, finally, I just said, ‘Screw it!’ and went over to the computer…

And who had just posted on my FB wall their well-wishes for my day? The divine Mr Ruley, that’s who. Turns out he was just about to go to bed as I was getting up. So we chatted it up for a bit online before I finally resigned myself to the fact that it was time to go. That was Great Start Event #1.

Great Start Event #2 happened as I was making my trek toward the tube stop: first, my iPod randomly selected Eartha Kitt’s “An Englishman Needs Time.” Why was this so great? Well, lemme tell ya: it’s awesome on one level simply because it was Heavenly Eartha herself, on another because it was a recording taken from the concert that Nic and I saw her perform live, and on a third level because it was about an Englishman and I’m in, well, England.

And then (Great Event #3), my iPod started playing “It’s Getting Better” by Mama Cass Eliot (Mamas and the Papas). Again, you may wonder why I’m classifying this as something great. You see I fell in love with the song (and the group) through their inclusion in one of the most romantic gay films I’ve ever seen: “Beautiful Thing.” (The flick in question was one of the few things that kept me sane in the early days of my coming to terms with my sexual identity—try as I might to find positive, happy representations of gayness, queer filmmakers of the ’90s were seemingly eager to paint a picture of gayness equaling misery, suffering, death, drugs, and infidelity. Damn it, I wanted more—and found exactly what I was looking for in the sweet love story of Jamie and Ste.) At any rate, the song was awesome/fitting because the film is set in Thamesmead, about 2.69 miles away from UEL. (Hmm….a day trip might be happening soon…)

Eventually, I made my way to the tube and began my journey proper. The entire trip took me about 1.5 hours—first I had to transfer from the District to the Jubilee line, and then I had to switch again to the Docklands Light Rail (DLR). Shockingly, it wasn’t bad!

Part of My Journey

Orientation itself was a bit overwhelming! Lots of information coming our way about everything from library services, to visa no-no’s, to trips around London and elsewhere. It was all a bit much, but after I’ve had some time to digest it all, it should (hopefully) make sense.

At 12:30 PM GMT we were given £5 vouchers to any of the multiple eating establishments on-campus. I wasn’t interested in much, so I just grabbed an egg sandwich and a coffee*—except, the grandmotherly cashier wouldn’t let me get away with just that. She kept insisting that it was a waste of money (as the two items only came to £2.65, or thereabouts), and forcing food on me! First, she told me to take an apple, which I did so as to be polite. Next, she told me to take a banana—I protested that it was too much, but she insisted…and then she insisted again, telling me to take a second banana! Finally, to top it all off, she told me to pick up a pack of belVita Breakfast Biscuits! It was all a bit absurd, but I did as I was told—guess I have dessert and breakfast for tomorrow.

Grandmotherly Cashier, or Nabisco Enforcer?

Following my sandwich and coffee, I wandered around the campus a bit. It really is a unique place—between the adjoining Thames and the occasional fishy breeze, one definitely feels as if they’re near docks, and the colorful, rounded dorms blend in almost perfectly with that nautical setting. Then there’s the London city airport, which is directly across the river—the large(ish) planes landing and taking off within seeming arm-reach is really cool. In some ways, UEL is very reminiscent of Columbia, but in other ways it’s just different enough that (at least at this point) it makes me feel a touch homesick. 

UEL/Docklands Dorms on the Thames

London City Airport and the Thames (Behind the Big Giant Head)

At 2:00 PM GMT, a group of us headed over to the Gallions Reach shopping center. There wasn’t too much there, but it was fun to go along on my first excursion with my London peers.

Around 5:30 PM GMT, I finally left campus and started the long trek home. I did make one final detour though: when it came time to transfer from the Jubilee to the District line, I left the tube and made my way to the street-level. You see, I was at the Westminster Stop, and one of my biggest regrets from the last time Nic and I were here was that I never got decent photos of the Palace of Westminster (the parliament building) at night. Tonight I rectified that, as can be seen from the photos below. And while I was there, I was able to actually hear Big Ben toll the 6:00 hour.

The Millennium Eye

Brett, "Big Ben," and Palace of Westminster

Westminster Abbey

After wandering for a bit, I returned home and chatted briefly, once more, with Nic as he prepared for tonight’s show. Then I enjoyed a yummy dinner of chicken and rice with KG and MM while watching “Coronation Street.” (I’m sure I’ll talk more about it later, but I’ve had a great time discussing British soaps and audience interaction with KG and MM while I’ve been here—I think the fact that they’re such a phenomenon over here is awesome, and I really want to get at that difference between British and USAmerican culture. I also think it’s interesting that British soaps are ongoing narratives like our own, despite the fact that so many other British television programs are self-contained narratives.)

Anyway, I’ve blathered on enough for one night—time to close shop.  Till the bell tolls again...

* I haven’t mentioned it here yet, but I’m trying to curb my coffee addiction while I’m here. I’ve done really well the last two days, having a single, small cup both days. No more. Quite the change from my multi-pot/day habit!

Here I am, London!

So, here I am.

London. The United Kingdom.

January 14, 2012. (Or, as the Brits might say, 14 January 2012.)

Okay, okay…it’s technically the 15^th at this point. But you can’t blame me for being confused—it’s been almost 48 hours since the last time I slept, but I wanted to get a lot of this out now, while it’s still fresh in my mind.

At any rate, my journey abroad began in earnest yesterday (today? two days ago?), 13 January 2012, at around 12:30 PM. With two large suitcases, a laptop, and my book-bag, Nic and I sat out for O’Hare. I was a mushy mess for most of it, but I did provide Nic with the…uhm, awesome (can I call it that?) pre-trip interview you can find linked here…

Who's This Handsome Traveller?

Okay, so maybe it’s not the best video in the world—but I think I looked cute in my little traveling hat. (By the way, did you catch my Anderson-Cooper-like nervous giggle around the 1:00 mark?)

Shortly after the video we made our way to the TSA security area and said our goodbyes. Pandas everywhere were weeping. It was pretty sappy, so I won't go into it too much here. 

And after that it was a matter of simply waiting for my plane…

And waiting…

And waiting…

And waiting…

It turns out that, thanks to the blizzard-like conditions on Wednesday, numerous flights in and out of O’Hare were delayed. Including mine. We didn’t actually take off until about 5:30 PM CST. Now, if I had been scheduled on a direct flight to London this would not have been a problem—but I had a connecting flight in Toronto at 8:30 PM EST.

Even then, I wasn’t too worried…

Until I learned that I would have to go through Canadian customs, collect my baggage, and then make my way all the way to the opposite side of the airport, recheck my baggage with British Airways, and then go to the proper terminal...

And then BA informed me that American Airlines had not given me the proper receipts for my checked baggage, so there was a chance I would have to pay again. (Fortunately, a call was placed to a supervisor and BA allowed me to just give them the copy of my receipt from AA.)

A long, tense story cut short: I made it on to the BA flight as scheduled, and we took off for London at around 9:30 EST. That flight was fairly uneventful, other than a baby who cried and cried the whole way, preventing any chance at sleep. Oh, well—I can sleep when I’m back in the States, right? Oh, and I got to enjoy a Canada Dry ginger ale while flying over Canada. It amused me… Clearly, I was already sleep-deprived.

At around 9:30 AM GMT my flight touched down at London’s Heathrow Airport. I was a bit worried going through customs because I had received conflicting information regarding the visa application process, and so I feared there was a chance I would be deported before I even had a chance to do anything deportation-worthy. Fortunately, the agent didn’t seem fussed, and actually commented that I had provided too much information—that all I actually needed (for the length of time I’m staying) were the letters from Columbia and UEL.

Within about an hour of my arrival in London, I was safe and secured in the home of our (mine and Nic’s) friends, KG and MM—they’ve been kind enough to provide me shelter from the elements until I conquer Buckingham Palace and make it my summer home… I mean, find a suitable (cheap) flat somewhere.

The rest of the day was pretty much a blur—I’m terribly jetlagged (hence the boring post here, which you probably stopped reading eons ago, meaning I can just say yadda yadda yadda shapoopie and no one would notice). I have already discovered two awesome shows, however. The first is called “Come Dine with Me” and the other is called “Borgen” (a subtitled import from Denmark). And, before I sat down to type this, I chatted with Nic and the Fish through FaceTime for almost an hour, which was wonderful!

FaceTimin' it with the Family!

And on that note, I need to grab some sleep.

Until next time…