THE WEEK OF STUART
Week of 8—14 of September

In Which Theresa Sets the Scene

I’m sitting listening to the mix CD my friend Stephan Schlumpf (yes, it’s okay to snigger) made for me, talking to Meredith, Brenna and Elizabeth in the living room. They’re such good flatmates—very easy to get along with. We all do our own thing, but I’ve been hanging out with them outside of the flat this week and it’s been fun.

So yeah, I’m in a great mood. It’s the perfect temperature outside and sunny—how could I not be happy? I’m in frickin’ London, and I’m still not quite used to the idea. I’ve just had the best weekend ever, thanks to my friend Stuart.

In Which You Are Introduced to Stuart Ryan, Man About Town

Good old Stuart. I met him while studying abroad in Swansea and became good friends with him and his flatmates Nick (also English) and Allison (from New Orleans). He and Nick were an absolute blast—kind of a Bert and Ernie thing going on (Stu’s tall and has dark eyebrows and Nick has a round face). They would take the piss about everything and make me laugh constantly. Stuart’s from the East End of London and is studying Law in Swansea—he’s 23 and in his last year, which he’s very happy about as he’s tired of school. I hadn’t seen Stuart in 18 months and was a little worried about meeting him on Tuesday, justifiably, since I hadn’t seen him in so long. Would he still be the same? Would I still be the same? Would our friendship, based on going to the same school together, still hold up or would we end up making awkward smalltalk? I needn’t have worried. When I got downstairs after work, there he was, jean jacket and all (although it was a new jean jacket, he made sure to tell me. As if he’d be caught dead wearing the same clothes he did two years ago!).

In Which Their First Meeting in 18 months is Detailed

We headed down to the West End, the most happenin’ place in London where all of the theatres and pubs and clubs and tourists are. Covent Garden, Soho, Trafalgar Square, Leicester Square, Picadilly Circus—these are the areas I’m gradually becoming more familiarised with, understanding how they’re connected by walking instead of by the Tube. It’s called the West End because it’s west of the City, the City being where the heart of London began, which is now comprised of loads of businessmen rushing up and down between the Royal Courts of Justice and the Strand into Fleet Street. Yes, I’ve been up and down Fleet Street several times now, and it always gives me a special thrill. Stuart used to work there.

In Which Theresa Is Justified In Thinking Her Surroundings Rather Posh and Gives a Lecture About Alcohol

Stu wanted to take me for some authentic English pub food, but we couldn’t find the street that the pub was on. After buying a newspaper, the seller was more than happy to give us directions (talk about capitalism!) and we eventually arrived at the pub. Turns out Stu had been there about a year ago for a stag party, so he was pretty embarrassed. I thought it hilarious that someone who grew up in London couldn’t find his way around; but come to think of it, last week Jim ended up not being able to find a street, either. London’s so damn confusing! We ate and drank and reminisced about life in Swansea, then headed over to another traditional pub for a few more drinks. I suggested we go back to Kensington (I wanted to show off my flat), so away we went. As we walked closer to my neighbourhood Stuart looked at all of the gorgeous white buildings and remarked, “If you live in any of these I’m going to kill you.” “Why no, Stuart,” I said, smirking to myself, “These are all hotels.” Then of course we turned down my street, which has the identical buildings to the hotels. Yeah, you could say he was a little jealous. I gave him the tour (“This is the kitchen, this is the telly…”) and we decided to go sample the pub life in Kensington Brenna, my flatmate who goes to the Royal College of Music, came out with us and we spent an enjoyable time discussing music until the pub closed at 11. Yes, pubs in England close at 11 p.m. Can’t believe it, can you? In Scotland they can stay open 24 hours a day, and it’s up to the individual pub to decide when to close. After an initial weekend of binging, the Scots all settled down and they have no more problems with liquor or getting drunk than do anyone else. Actually, the theory that Stuart and one of my coworkers espoused on why the British drink so much is because the pubs close so early. If you know you have to finish drinking by a certain (early) hour, you’re going to pack in the pints to make sure you get your money’s worth. If they would just extend the drinking licenses to be a bit longer, say 1:00, people wouldn’t be so eager to drink gallons in a short amount of time, but would be able to space it out more. Interesting theory, that. Britain has some strange drinking laws. Until recently it was illegal to drink on Sundays past a certain hour, so the supermarkets would cordon off the drinking part of the store. There are also restaurants here where you can bring your own liquor, but can’t buy it from the proprietor due to liquor licensing laws. And they think we’re weird about alcohol!

In Which A Pathetic Plea Is Made

So that was Tuesday. Wednesday I managed to get my mobile phone to work—got it free from a guy at work, but needed to get a new SIM card and get it unlocked. All technical stuff only those Anglophiles among you can relate to, but a relief nonetheless. I’ve somehow managed to spend all of the money I’d put on my phone (you add money and top it up when you run out), so I can’t call anyone right now, but you’re more than welcome to call or text me at (001) 44 779 293 7668. Can’t wait to hear from you!

In Which Theresa Discusses Her Obsessions

I managed to do some window shopping on Oxford Street, the best-loved and most-reviled shopping area in the city. Tons of shops, tons of tourists. I went on Monday and didn’t think so highly of it (I’d been there before during one of my other London trips), but Wednesday I walked from Tottenham Court Road and started falling in love with the shoes. Ah, the shoes! Everyone here has these long pointy-toed shoes, and part of me (the trendy, I-want-to-look-cutting edge part) wants to buy some. The other part (the I-already-have-huge-very-narrow-feet part) realises it’s just a trend. So we’ll see. I also did some browsing on Wednesday at the largest bookstore in the world, the Waterstone’s in Piccadilly Circus. It’s six stories of nothing but books—and a bar at the top. Only in Britain… It was invigorating being around so much reading material, but as I can check out books not only from King’s, but the University of London’s library (oh, and the British Library as well) I think I’ll take my chances there.

In Which Theresa Comes Clean About Work

Thursday rolled around with nothing of consequence other than the fact I stayed at work until 9:00 p.m. I wanted a chance to reorganise the shelves in my part of the room without being distracted by everyone else—a common occurance throughout the day. Either Jo will come over and tell me something I need to do, or I’ll start discussing things with Claire and Peternell. (Our most interesting discussion so far was on the class system. I raised Claire’s ire by saying the British are “obsessed” with class, but I still hold to the statement.) I’m not sure how well I’m going to be able to deal with everything going on. Jo is constantly telling me things I need to do, and then Rachel emails me with all these projects. It sucks having two bosses! I don’t know how I’m going to balance my time between them like I’m supposed to. Plus I’m just getting myself stressed because I’m feeling that I’ve already fallen behind in just one week. There are emails I haven’t replied to because I’ve been concentrating so much on Orientation. Everyone keeps telling me that Orientation is the worst part of the year and that things will die down, but I’m not so sure they will because I’ll be getting in more and more applications for the spring. I’m going to go into work early tomorrow morning and try to get some things done that I just didn’t accomplish during the week. I haven’t been taking lunch, either, and that hasn’t seemed to help. Here I am, getting myself all worked up! I just need to relax and realise that at 5:30 I’m allowed to go home and not think about work. But it’s tough—I don’t feel as if I’m living up to my duties. I mean, I actually had a kid call me up because he’d emailed and hadn’t heard back from me, which didn’t make me feel like I was on the ball. I know it’s only been a week, though, so hopefully by next month I’ll be a real pro and won’t be as stressed out. But frankly, I don’t know how well-suited I am towards paper-pushing and data entry. I’m okay with it when I know it’s for a project and there will be a finished product at the end, but I don’t know if I could do this for two years like Jim did. I want a job where I organise things and/or put on events/do projects. And autonomy—that’s always nice! So in a way, this is beneficial for me because it’s helping me figure out what I want and don’t want in a profession.

In Which The Offer of Marriage Is Made and Rejected

As it is, I still love London and would like to live here for years and years. I really freaked Stu out by asking him if he’d consider saying he was engaged to me so I could stay in the country. Of course I was just kidding, but he thought I was serious for a bit. I explained I’d never go that far, at which point he said if there was a legal way for me to stay here, would I consider renting a flat with him. That would be a blast! But how to do it… I’ve decided if I can’t stay in Britain I’m going to research teaching English in France. I’ve always wanted to become fluent in French, and now’s the best time to do it, before I get married and start popping out the babies. Besides, my aunt’s friend did it (the teaching part, that is) and if she could, I can.

In Which Theresa Quotes Dr. Samuel Johnson

There’s a quotation by Samuel Johnson that’s been bandied about in a lot of guidebooks I’ve read:
“When a man is tired of London he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”
What a true statement! And to illustrate this fact I’ll give you a rundown of how I spent my weekend:

Stuart and I met in Piccadilly Circus and were going to try to see a comedy show, but it was sold out. So we ate at an Indian and wandered around the West End—from Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square, watching all of the tourists walk by. It’s so enlivening to be in the city with a friend! Someone to talk to and joke with and discuss ideas with. That’s why you should all come and visit me. Only then will these rather silly-looking place names actually make any sense to you. After a look at Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square, Stuart took me up to Buckingham Palace, where the Queen is currently in residence (the Union Jack is raised when she’s home). After a long walk we ended up by Big Ben (which apparently is actually the Tower of Westminster or something, according to Stu). Walking along the Thames at night, with someone who can point out which building is which and give the history of each, is something to be treasured! So is a friend who will guide you past St. Paul’s to the church of St. Mary-le-Bow just so you can see the church whose bells’ sound you have to be born within earshot of in order to be considered a true Cockney, of which Stuart ranks as one. Another great benefit of going out with a friend like Stuart is that he took me to several excellent pubs to slake our thirst. The first (and my all-time favourite pub as of right now) was in the basement of a building and was decorated like a mad scientist’s lair. Hard to describe but worth a viewing. It was a fantastic night—but the next day was to be even better.

In Which the Victorian Age is Emulated

Saturday I awoke at the decent hour of 11 a.m. and was by Westminster by 11:45 to meet Stuart for the day’s outing he had planned. He’d come up with the fabulous idea of taking a boat ride up the Thames, and a more perfect day he could not have picked. Not a cloud in the sky (which ended up with Stuart’s fair English skin becoming a little sunburned) and a perfect temperature. As we glided westward, the pilot told us about the buildings we passed, giving history and making hilarious comments with the dry sense of humour that the British capture so well. It was so relaxing being on the water and gliding along at a leisurely pace. A short hour later, we were at Kew Gardens, over 300 acres of woodland, paths, and gorgeous glass greenhouses containing thousands of plants and trees from climates all over the world. It was fascinating to see banana trees from Africa and the oldest potted plant in the world (brought back from an intrepid Brit’s explorations of Africa or the Middle East in the late 1800s); walking about the paths between rose gardens and looking at the lake before the Edwardian house made me wish that there were people about in period costume. It was so Victorian! I felt I needed a parasol and a huge dress to really engage with the Gardens. As it was, Stuart bought me lunch and we made our way back to the river. By then, the tide had risen so our view was less obscured. We floated past small houses built right on the water and flower-bedecked pubs where people were enjoying a pint near the river. All was calm and beautiful except for the flotsam and jetsam of plastic bottles that had become ensnared in the river with its rising; they made me sick to look at. Imagine throwing a bottle in the Thames!

In Which a Narrow Escape is Made

We had one hilarious moment on the way back that had me dissolved in giggles for minutes. On the way up we’d gone under the Hungerford Bridge, which the pilot told us was originally designed to go over the Serpentine in Hyde Park but for some reason was put over the Thames. The engineers hadn’t thought of boats going underneath, so when the tide rose there was sometimes as little at 3 feet of clearance beneath the bridge. I didn’t think much of it until on our way downstream we approached the bridge and the pilot and first mate turned off the motor (we still drifted downstream) and dismantled the pilot’s cabin by folding down the windows, and by taking the covering for the stairway and folding it down. As we drew near the bridge, the pilot had to duck for us to go beneath it, and by barely rising from my seat I was able to touch the bridge. Ahh, British ingenuity and engineering! And tradition! Stu and I had a right laugh.

In Which Theresa and Stu Pose as Posh Chelsea/Kensington Residents

Once we got back to shore we took the Tube to Chelsea, the neighbourhood bordering Kensington to the south and the poshest place in all of London. We walked past shop after shop on the King’s Road, the main street bisecting Chelsea, and Stu was kind enough to buy me a real Cornish pasty for dinner. They don’t compare to the pasties you can find in the U.P. of Michigan, but it was still a nice dinner. A short (short being a relative term here in the U.K.) walk and we were back to Kensington.

In Which a View is Discovered, Along with Alcopops

After cajoling Meredith, who just turned 20 this week, the three of us set out to the Strand campus of King’s, where one of my coworkers had rented out the student bar for her 25th birthday party. After much wandering around the oh-so-confusing corridors of the conglomeration of buildings that is the Strand, we found the stairwell we were to go up to get to the bar. Unfortunately, we were on the other side of another stairwell with no way of getting in, and it took more wandering around and a final desperate retreat to find the guard before we got directions. But it was well worth it—the Student Union’s bar isn’t called The Waterfront for nothing. A fine view of the Thames at night, from the London Eye to the Oxo Tower to the Docklands, stretched out before us. Apparently a company once tried to buy out the bar just for the view, it’s that good. We all had drinks (Meredith had her first alcopops, that amazingly good British alternative to nasty wine coolers) and Stuart forwent his Stella for Strongbow. Some schmoozing with coworkers led to my introduction to D.O., short for Daniel Owens, who’s a student worker hailing from none other than Swansea. Stuart and I discussed ol’ Abertawe with him for a bit, and he and I raced to see who could say “Llanfairpwyllgwngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantisilogogogoch,” the longest place-name in Wales, the fastest. He won, but not by much, and he said I had a ‘very nice accent’ when I tried out my scant Welsh with him. Not even his brother can properly say “Llanelli” like I can!

In Which Theresa Spews Some Sentimental Drivel

Stuart had to leave for the long ride back to Zone 6, and Meredith and I decided to go home on the Tube rather than going out for food with D.O. and Adam (the guy who gave me my phone) and risking taking the confusing busses home. I’m not quite ready to tackle the bus system in London quite yet. So it was with sadness I said goodbye to Stuart, who made my week here so wonderful; but as I plan on going to Swansea next weekend I’ll be able to see him soon. And I won’t be so trepidatious about seeing my old Swansea friends again, either, not after having fallen back into my same bantering friendship with Stuart. The only thing that was different about our relationship is that I’m more mature and don’t care as much about little things.

In Which Camden Market was Conquered

Today, Sunday, I arose at the early hour of noon and headed off for Camden Market with Brenna. It felt like hours, but was only about an hour and a half of looking at all of the leather coats, the jumpers, the skirts, the tops, the food, the candles, the hangings, the pillows—the everything! Everything you could possibly want to buy is at the market or one of its offshoots, or along the street or the adorable canal. It wasn’t anything like I’d thought it would be; having only been to Portobello Market I assumed it would be shops with antiques and little booths, but it was much different. So many people! So many languages! It was amazing, and exhausting, and I can’t wait to go back.

In Which Theresa Has her First Party in London

A little tired, Brenna and I made the trek to Sainsbury’s to stock up on snacks and wine for our party. I’d gotten the go-ahead from the girls to make invitations for everyone in our building to come over for wine and socialising. By 8:00 we had our first visitors—all told we probably had about 10 people come over, all very nice an a couple of them (gasp) not from the States. It was a relaxing, fun evening, and as we ended up with more wine at the end of the night than the beginning I’m definitely counting it a rousing success. The only detriment is that now it’s 2 a.m.

In Which Theresa Contemplates the Rest of Her Week--and Makes you Jealous

I’m planning on going to Swansea this upcoming weekend, so you’ll probably hear from me on Monday. In between I plan on doing more sight-seeing, and am taking the American students who arrive at King’s to the British Museum on Thursday and to a High Tea on Friday. Should be a fun, but tiring, week.


Talk to you soon,
Love, Theresa