beginning of the end

If you really think about it, nothing is ever really completely over. You never really leave anything behind or anyone for that matter. I'm well aware that I've been whining and complaining about how much I'm going to hate leaving here and how sad I am to say good-bye to London. But the closer we get to the end of our time here, the more I realize that the memories that I've made here, and the friendships that I've formed are going to sustain my missing London and the life that I lead here.

I sat in Trafalgar Square on Friday for about an hour just taking in the city. Drinking in the sounds of the people and the pigeons, watching the water fountains and the tourists climbing on the lion statues. Trafalgar Square and St. Martin's Lane are my little corner of London. I spent more time there than anywhere else in the whole city. It was the first place I went, and the last place I'm going to say good-bye to.

In Dublin last weekend, we visited our friend Ryan. He left to go home only 2 days later. It was interesting to stay with someone who was so close to the end. He was happy to go home, happy to leave his new city and ready for the end. I don't know if I'll ever get to that point. I have a feeling I'll be sobbing all the way home. But seeing him on the verge of leaving made me think about what it is about London that totally enraptures me. Dublin was nice, I enjoyed it immensely, but I don't think that after 4 months I would call it as much home as I do London. I have always felt comfortable here, I have always been so fascinated by it. This city accepts all sorts of people, there is something for everyone here. And I think that attitude is what is so attractive to someone who has little, to know idea where life will take them.

Upon returning London, I proclaimed, "I'm home!" I had a few people question how I could possibly call some place home that I've only lived in for 4 months. But some home, this is home for me, just as Elon is home and Bethesda is home. Who ever said you cannot lay your hat in 3 different cities?

So I like to think, this is not the beginning of the end, because I have a million memories and a handful of amazing friends who will sustain this beautiful life in London perpetually.

library musings

After having spent a sufficient 6 hours in the British Library today, I’ve come to the conclusion that there is something magical about old books and manuscripts. I held a book today that was 100 years old, a pamphlet that was 130 years old, and an original copy of a letter, handwritten in 1783. Yes you read that right, 1783, which would make it 224 years old. Everything I looked through today had the most incredible musty smell. Gross, possibly to some. But it was amazing. Holding another letter from 1907, I could feel the writer, and I felt like I knew her. I laughed at the pronunciation key she gave to her reader for the name Premanand (“you say ‘pray’ shortly, then mà, with a great deal of emphasis, then ‘nun’ shortly, and stick in a ‘d’ at the end! Now, do you think you know how to say it?”).

It’s funny how once you’re gone, people can read your mail. It really suits the nosey neighbor in me, but something about it is just strange. But this very independent missionary woman, Marie Elizabeth Hayes, is doing wonders for my grade in my general studies course. Because of her attempts to explain her daily life to her colleagues at St Stephen’s Hospital in Delhi, I understand so much more about the lives of Indian women and British women in India during imperialism.

Sitting here, (I’m writing this in a Word document to transfer to my blog later because we don’t get wireless in the Library.) I started thinking about the sorts of things that people will want to study about us. What will we leave behind? Well, if my current form of communication with you is any indication, it won’t be paper. How different it will be for a student, perhaps studying the study abroad practices of American girls in London during the early 21^st century, to read my letters. All of them are electronic. She, or he, will get a big diskette or whatever, and will just scroll down through. Nothing will be tangible, there will be no musty smells, they won’t be able to see my handwriting. There is something incredibly personal about reading a handwritten letter. You can almost picture the person writing it. You can almost see them forming each letter, dotting every I and crossing every T, to be cliché. Historians of the future most like will not have the same experience with letters and journals of today. They’re all emails and blogs.

It’s a very funny thing to hold something older than, well dirt, and think about how there will be very few things like that of yours to exist after you do. These letters of Marie Hayes’ enable her to live long after she died in 1908. She unwittingly gained immortality simply by scrawling a few observations, condolences and sentiments. Pretty cool, if you ask me.

if sheep could fly

I know I've said before how busy I am, but this week hit an all time high. Thursday was the big night at my internship. I've been working on planning the after-party event for the London premiere of the Philip Glass opera, Satyagraha. Thursday night was the big night when everything had to work and had to come together for the show. Luckily, it did for the most part. The party was wonderful, all those 'famous' London guests who needed tickets, got them. And Philip Glass stepped on my foot. It's my new claim to fame, really. I was horrendously stressed out before hand, as I always get before some big thing, but it all went really well and I actually had a really great time at the event. My hired car took me home at 1:15 am.

My parents are visiting, so Friday morning at 8:50 (yes, this is after my 1:15 am arrival to my bed) I caught a train to Warwick to meet my parents and our friends for a day at the castle there. More a theme park than a heritage sight, it was still very fun. We saw them launch the trebuchet. Which, for the lack of a better phrase, was pretty freakin' sweet. This started the discussion of the fact that in 'ye olde' (pronounced with the hard 'e' at the end...) times they would launch other things, not just 15 kilo balls. Like sheep, and pigs (according to our friend Sandra, they're more aerodynamic...) and people. And my brother's personal favorite, lime pitch. They would launch a basket of lime and the basket would empty out on its way down. The lime would then dust out over the castle walls. As soon as it hit any body part that had any sort of wetness, it would start burning. Gruesome. The funny thing was that the 'squire,' who was explaining everything, didn't spare any details. He was just as gory and graphic. It was amusing because that would never happen in America. We like to sugar coat death and destruction.

It was a fabulous weekend filled with driving around looking at thatched roofs, beautiful yellow fields of rape (That really is the name...) and lots and lots of sheep. I wanted to take a little white lamb with a black face home, but no one would let me put it in the car. They're adorable. And the sound they make is just so funny. My parents found a little stuffed animal sheep in Scotland. I'll have to settle for that, I suppose.

Everyone always says that London is the antithesis of Great Britian. It is everything that the rest of the country is not. After traveling around a good part of the country in the last few days, I can truly understand that now. England is full of farms, fields, pubs and quiet villages. I could spend a lifetime traveling around the interior of this country and never even scratch the surface. The beauty is a different sort, it's calm and slow. It doesn't take itself or anyone else too seriously. It is what it is, and that's it.

As the number of weeks I have here dwindle to the single digits, I find myself just trying to soak everything up. I walk down the street and I become more alert - listening, watching, trying to see everything and anything that I can put to memory and hold on to. The days are fleeting and time just keeps flying by. I want to just stop and stay forever, but I know that if I could, my fleeting time here would not seem so precious.

And so, I carry on, taking digital photos and mental ones. But so many times I just sit and try to absorb the city around me; to remember how I felt at the moment and to try to recreate it over and over again to secure its place in my mind until I find myself back here someday, ready to create more memories.