First of all, I just need to say that I was very close to leaving this blog dormant for eternity, closure or no closure. However, after my friend Joey added closure to HIS blog, well, you all know me as the competitive sort.

"Panic in the Streets of London." When I wrote that title, I was in a very unique place. On one hand, I was sitting there like most of my fellows did, wondering what it would be like to live in London, so far away from home. On the other hand, I had already had the incredible opportunity of spending nearly a week and a half in London only months before. I had already passed step 1 (that's "tourism") and was ready to take the leap into step 2, "inhabitation." Even then, I realized the difference between "tourist" and "Londoner," though perhaps not specifically. I recognized that there was a difference, but not necessarily what that difference would be. That would come later, toward the end of my stint in London.

But, why "Panic"? Was I nervous? I was going from Orange County suburbia straight to city living. It would be understandable, a sort of panic, but at the same time, I felt a confidence regarding living in London. I had been there before, I had done the culture shock thing. I was ready. So what panic would I have in London? Perhaps, in a way, the panic I felt was not necessarily that of a chicken in the style of Marie Antoinette, but of someone excited to run around the streets of London in a panic-like fashion. Well, if that was the case, then mission: accomplished.

These days, I am back in California, smiling in the sun when we have it, still going around jacketless when we dont. I spend a lot of time doing nothing. I'm not depressed, I promise; I dont feel nearly that dramatic. I just dont have an opinion. I have no urge to do anything, only to let my roots sink deep down into the couch while I watch movies on HBO. I've been social, slightly, but it's hard when some of the people you really want to see are time-zones away. Will I remain in the mode of London's famous surrogate, OC, or will I return to the shell of a shy piece of human toast named Elise? I suppose that remains to be seen. I feel the essence of OC slipping away, as if I need to spritz myself with a fresh dose of her, but perhaps she is merely entering a period of rest, a period of hibernation. When I head back to Chapman this fall, we'll see if I can't conjure her up for some good times.

Anyway, that is in the future. In fact, that's about as far into the future as my London life is in the past. And who knows? Perhaps this time next year, I'll be starting the next chapter in my life, living in a flat and working a job in the UK. But for now, my job is to get back into the ways of America and graduating. Dear readers, thank you for joining me on my journeys. Many of you have seen photos and heard stories by now, but if you are curious about the many places that I didnt mention in this blog's dark months, please visit my Facebook and dont hesitate to ask!

Thank you, and cheers!

xx

Elise

However, I did go on a wonderful spring break. We can talk about that, cant we?

Two weeks ago Saturday, my friend Stephanie and I were on a coach from London. 8 hours and a septic mess later (it's not a long story, just a very unpleasant one), we arrived in the city of Edinburgh, Scotland. Of course, I can't leave out the university students who only an hour earlier were cooing and squee-ing at the sight of sheep and lambs. I'm by no means a city girl (well, maybe that's changed in the last few months), but I'm definitely not a country girl either. Seeing real sheep really grazing turns me into an 8-year-old.

Edinburgh was a faerie world. There were castles peeking around every corner and some that were on the corners of peaks. We climbed a volcano and were almost blown off the top by the strongest gales I've ever met. The view consisted of a pleasantly spiky skyline on a backdrop of swollen mountains covered in rivers of snow. On our last day in Scotland, Stephanie an I visited those mountains--the Highlands--and, despite being on a very long and incredibly awkward bus ride, I found that long-haired cows (heereecoos) and sheep really do belong in wild mountain environments. It is a shame that it wasn't until after we left that we realized how touristy Edinburgh is. I think we spoke to 4 Scottish people while we were there. A bit of a shame, but it was such a beautiful city that I can let bygones be bygones.

Dublin was--oh, how can I possibly describe it?--less magical, but more lovely than I could've ever wanted it to be. It's difficult for me to recommend Dublin, I've since learned, because as much as I do love it, most people find it much less magical than Edinburgh. I realized by Stephanie's reaction to the different cities that Dublin's magic for me lies in the fact that it was the first European city I ever visited. The streets are chock full of memories of LonDubs doing silly things. It was so comforting to be back! As we walked down O'Connell street to find our hostel south of the Liffey, I literally could not suppress my grin, a grin which I'm sure made many passers-by feel uneasy. It was fun to see things exactly as they were six months ago as well as seeing how things have changed. Dublina, the Viking Theme Park, has a new entrance that makes it actually look classy. A line of apartments that used to be covered with lush green vines was now covered with brown sticks that used to be lush green vines. I took Stephanie to see some old favorites of mine--the Literary Pub Crawl, The Queen of Tarts--and some new things. We saw a performance of "Macbeth" at the Abbey theatre, sitting so close that I'm pretty sure Macbeth landed some spittle on my arm. It was gory and fabulous, rekindling my love for both Macbeth and Shakespeare. We also visited the Dublin Writers Museum (near my old favorite, the Maldron) where I fell in love with Oscar Wilde all over again. We took a free tour as well, which was interesting. I was able to hear different aspects of the history I had read so much about a summer ago. But I think it was all worth it to hear the tour guide end the tour with a small quote that I'm sure many of the LonDubs will never forget: "All was changed, changed utterly, and a terrible beauty was born." Got to love monsieur W.B. Yeats.

Now, back in London, things are changing as well. Spring, as they always say, has sprung, yielding a very beautiful learning environment. All the daffodils are out, which I believe must be encouraging the trees to show their blooms. What used to be dead tree skeletons are now showing the true colors of magnolias and cherry blossoms. The birds are singing during all hours of a day that begins at 6 a.m. and ends at 9 p.m. It hasn't even rained for week--only beautiful skies and warm weather. Only yesterday, I took a wonderful afternoon boat ride through the canals in Little Venice with two of my friends.

But there are more changes over the horizon. One of our friends is ending her London semester next week and this shakes the very foundation of the dream I've been in for the last months. Not only will I be sad when she leaves for Holland--where she calls "home"--but her departure signals the end. She will be the first of us to leave, but not the last. Very slowly, people will start their departures to their respective parts of the world, ending with mine in June. Usually, whenever any of us mentions this sad fact, another one of us will tell us not to think about it. Unfortunately, once it starts, it will be a hard thought to stifle.

And then there's Eyjafyallajokull, the volcano that's brought Europe to its knees. Spring break is over tomorrow, and yet my friends are trapped in their respective vacation locations across Europe. Even if airports as far south as Rome can open up again, the chances that UK airspace will re-open soon is slim, as we are right under the cloud's path. As a Californian in London, it's very bizarre to see that same hyper-orange sunset that you usually see in fire season. The experts claim that you can't see the ash up in the air, but for those of us who are used to looking for it in November, it's easy to see. As fabulous as the volcano was a few days ago, the novelty has begun to wear off. I miss my amigos!

But a readership is a readership, no matter how small.

This upcoming week is both incredibly stressful and incredibly exciting. I am actually going to see Midori, one of the most famous violinists (and that's not saying much), and Yuri Bashmet, one of the most famous violists (and that's saying a lot), this week. All kidding aside, seeing one of these performers would be a huge event in my life, let alone two of them. And the repertoire they'll be performing is in a (terribly inarticulate) word, awesome. Tuesday is Yuri Bashmet performing Grieg's "Holberg Suite," Bach's "Brandenburg Concerto No. 3," and Tchaikowsky's "Serenade for Strings." Wednesday is Midori performing the Mendelssohn violin concerto, followed by a performance of Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique" by the famed London Symphony Orchestra.

If you haven't heard any of the aforementioned pieces, please, for the love of all things beautiful, go on youtube and listen to them. There must be at least one piece that intrigues you. (I'd recommend the Berlioz, movement V, for you classical novices, as it is so deliciously evil and demented.)

Meanwhile, I've discovered that there is something inherently (dare I say it again?) awesome about buying completely mundane things in not-so-mundane places. Well, I'm sure London is mundane for some people who live here, but for me, it's still rather exotic. I have collected a small amount of DVDs, books, and, more recently, some clothes. To me, it's the most intriguing form of souvenir. Whenever I wash my new jacket from Marks and Spencer, I will see the "UK" on the tag. Whenever I pick up "Run Fat Boy Run" to pop in to the DVD player, I will see the "15" enclosed in a circle on the cover (indicating age in the UK rating system). Whenever I compare my copy of "Midnight's Children" with someone else's American copy (which is, granted, not something I'm apt to do, really), I will know that mine is from Waterstones in London. The feigned exoticism is the entire reason that I don't absolutely hate "Transformers 2" (which I saw with some Londubs in Dublin this summer). I just dont feel the need to cart around "I Heart London" shirts or iron-cast Eiffel Towers back home with me. The french copies of H2G2 and Guy de Maupassant will work nicely for me.

(I am aware that in my half-asleep state, the following will most likely come off as pretentious and somewhat offensive to my fellows, but I hope you can at least consider what I am saying and realize that it is not meant as any direct insult to any one person. I will concede it as an insult as soon as the guilty concede its truth. And yes, this disclaimer is most definitely a way for me to cover my ass--I am American after all.)

(I don't, by the way.)

Anyway, this weekend was a very strange one, and a very long one being as it actually began on Wednesday night. As I alluded to in my previous post, my friend Mathias, while attempting to do the lift from "Dirty Dancing" with our friend Mie, fell down and hit his head on the wall. Six minutes later, he woke up to find us staring at him and calling an ambulance. Through someone's terrible advice (I'm not sure who--there were many people in the room), the ambulance was cancelled. Needless to say, ambulance or not, a handful of us were convinced that he was concussed.

Mathias's concussion mildly affected some other events of the weekend, but all in all, things have turned out all right.

Thursday was an attempt at staying out in London late enough to take the first tube on Friday morning. The attempt failed due to misconceptions with closing times, bad bartenders, and an aggravated concussion. I did discover a new drink that I enjoy: Malibu and Coke. I will probably grab one of those next time we go to B@1 for cocktails.

Friday was pretty much uneventful, which was good for all of us. The mid-week partying needed to be offset by a relaxed start to the weekend. However, Erika had gone back to visit family in Sweden that morning, so things seemed slightly quieter. Bored, I picked up a few cheap DVDs at ASDA, leading to my seeing "Hot Fuzz" for the first time. I highly recommend seeing it, by the way. Quite hilarious!

Saturday started at 2p.m. and consisted of sitting on the floor of the kitchen discussing random things with the Gubbay crew. We decided on making "pancakes" for dinner, but I soon realized that "pancakes" referred to what we Americans might consider "crêpes." The plan involved a quasi-casserole with pancakes and leftover pancakes for dessert, to be served with ice cream and jam. Louise and I went to get ingredients while Mie and Mathias were in charge of making the food. Unfortunately, while we were out, Mathias began to feel sick (concussion repercussions) and Mie took him to the hospital to get checked out. This left Louise and me in charge of the deliciosity which was to become "Frenchiladas with Italian Sauce." Essentially, "Frenchiladas" are enchiladas made with crêpes instead of tortillas. The filling is a tomato and corn meat-sauce. All of it is topped with parmesan cheese and thrown into the oven until bubbly. It was done by the time M + M returned, and we all agreed that it was a culinary success!

Sunday was fabulous. Louise took me over to Notting Hill to go shopping at Portobello Road. It was very quiet and less than 50% of the shops were actually open, but it was fantastic none-the-less. We bought scarves, spent way too much at Lush, and bought student-made oil paintings. Mine is an exquisite black and white painting of Paris and la Tour Eiffel. Finally, I have something to put on my drab white walls.

Paris is slowly coming into view in the distance. I leave Friday morning to spend both Camille's birthday and Valentine's day in the city of lights. What an exciting prospect! My best Valentine's day in years, I'm sure of it. Plus, my friend Stephanie, who is currently studying in Pamplona, Spain, just happens to be venturing to Paris during the same weekend! Coincidences make Europe so much more fun.

Also, allow me to take this time to recommend a novel called The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith. I read it for one of my courses here, but it is an absolute fun read. I will warn you that it starts out a tad slow, but once it picks up speed, it holds you at a steady pace right to the end. Tom Ripley, an American in Europe, provides a unique perspective, especially for another American in Europe. The crimes he commits are so atrocious, yet, because of Ms. Highsmith's writing, you can't help but root for him. It's a fun ride and a moral quandary all in one!

The differences between family and friends are both big and small. They can be as obvious as lowering your "personal space" boundaries, or as subtle as noticing that your personal world is just slightly quieter while one part of the family goes home to Sweden for the weekend. You remember how the slamming of a door exactly 7 paces away seemed so comforting, or how a familiar laugh drifting from the kitchen was like the pied piper's pipe, leading you into a land where the cacophony of pots and spoons is merely a folk-tune.

Disappearances can make you feel empty. Concussions can shake the foundations. Entire days spent sitting on the dirty floor of a kitchen talking of philosophy, politics, literature, and gossip can remind you of a family reunion.

These are the relationships I have already formed within a mere month in London. How can I possibly leave this after four more months? Granted, I will be back home with my birth family and my various other families, but all families are important, no matter how far away they may be scattered across the globe.

But let me speak of happier things. Let me spin tales of trains, strange tongues, Italian sun, and Azure coasts. One sentence from my french professor back home has sent me into the world of the Eurail. "I will be in Paris," she said to me as we munched on tartines and fudge, "and suddenly, in just 2 hours on the train, I will be in Salzburg."

Let me assure you--it is that easy. For about $500 (£319), you can travel for 10 days throughout four countries. I can start in Prague, spend a day in Vienna, see Mozart's birthplace in Salzburg, catch a glimpse of a gondola in Venice, feel the breeze off the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, see Rome, Pisa, Nice, Marseille, Lyon, and end in Paris. I can do all of this, and I will. Perhaps $500 sounds pricey, but I would rather come home broke, my brain stuffed with memories, than with some extra funds to splurge on movie tickets and expos. This extravagant spring break is what I've been saving up for. Sorry, Southern California, but seeing a quarter of Europe beats Cabo any day.

That is my Eurail trip. As tantalizing as it sounds, it will not be a social trip. Social is Paris this upcoming weekend. Social is Dublin. Social is Edinburgh. Social is Amsterdam and Bruges. Eurail, that's my solo. And I couldn't be happier, though I'm sure upon reading this, mom and dad will be biting a lip or knocking a knee (or two).

What I'm truly excited about is experiencing the change between countries. Paris, Rome, London--all of these cities stand alone in their reputation. But imagine spending each day in a new Italian city. Image seeing that relationship between Paris and the Côte d'Azure. Imagine seeing how entire nations change before your eyes in a matter of hours. Imagine walking with Mozart's ghost one day and visiting Tom Ripley's floating Venice the next. In a couple of months, I will no longer have to imagine.

I hate to echo my fellow American students (who announce that they have moved on from tourism while buying cheesy jumpers that read "Mind the Gap"), but this place, for me, truly is Narnia. Sure, the snow has all melted and turkish delights aren't nearly as appetizing as they sound, but for me, Europe will never be reality. Home is reality. The land of freezing 60º and shitty public transportation, that's my home, my reality, and I love it. However, I will wait as long as I can to finally step out of the wardrobe back into my own bedroom, perhaps with a sliver or two of proof that Narnia truly does exist.

That makes it sound as if I'm not happy. I am happy, very happy, in fact. However, the class system is very different than it is back home, as are the students. The social situation is fine--everyone is very nice and fun to be around--but the in-class interaction leaves something to be desired. It will take some getting used to, and I'm sure that I will get used to it, but I can't stop wondering if that twinge of annoyance will ever go away.

Here at Middlesex University, Awkward Silence is king. I don't know if it is that laziness I hear about or if it's shyness, but whenever a professor asks a question in a discussion, it feels like ages before someone (mainly me, it seems) speaks up. Sure, I could just be completely full of myself--hell, that's always a possiblity!--but there hasn't been a class that has resisted the stifling silence of these tight-lipped students! Here's a scenario many of you might be familiar with: It is the first day of a new course in a new semester. There are students you recognize and students you don't. The first discussion of the semester begins, but it begins with a heavy silence, flavored with hesitation and trepidation. Do you have an opinion, or are you simply blank? Will your peers agree with you, find you stupid, or find you a genius? There is a cloud of self-questioning that hangs in the air until finally, as if someone released the tension from a distended tire, some brave soul sticks out their neck and breaks the silence. The trail is blazed and soon, other students join in, creating an active and lush discussion.

For my American course load, I deal with this same situation at least 3 times a semester, 6 times an academic year. It's an atmosphere I am familiar with. It's an atmosphere that I'm used to taking on. However, it's an atmosphere that, in American Universities, lasts only an hour or so. Not a big deal.

However, things are different here at Middlesex. That same cloud hangs over the class as if it was the first day of a new class, but something is wrong. These classes are not semester-long classes, but year-long classes. These faces, apart from those of changeling exchange students such as myself, are the same for January as they were for December. Christmas break does not signify a shift in the classroom, merely a short break. So, why does the awkward silence prevail? Why does no-one raise their hand and partake in the discussion? Is it possible to still be uncomfortable with the 8-or-so students that have been studying with you for months? However, the seminars and lectures are quite infrequent, whereas, back at Chapman, within the first week of a new semester, you've seen your new classmates 2-3 times. I'm used to being mentally engaged during the entire week, not just a day. Whenever I feel myself start floating down from my academic frame of mind, I have the same class again to bounce me back. Here, I fall too quickly.

I get very anxious in these classes, waiting for the good stuff to start, but it never seems to begin. But perhaps it is just the sleepiness of coming back from a long break. Maybe next week, I'll feel the brains around me begin to defrost. If not, I suppose I'll have to do what I always try to do in these situations: force myself to make the best of it. If this is a type of institution that supports a regimen of self-enforced study, independent learning, and self-fueled curiosity, bring it on! I can take whatever they can dish out!