a lost "wrinkle"

Madeleine L'Engle died last Thursday, and with her passing, the world lost perhaps one of the best novelists of modern times.

Now, I may be exaggerating a little, but this is my blog, so deal with it.

For those for whom the name does not ring a bell, L'Engle was the author of "A Wrinkle in Time."

As a journalism student, I feel like I'm constantly being told by professors that the only way to become a good journalist is to read good journalism. I think it needs to go one step further. Journalism is storytelling. To be a good journalist, you must surround yourself with good storytelling.

L'Engle's writing is recognized for its impeccable storytelling: clean, easy work that not only superficially engages the reader, but that also challenges thought on a more mature level, introducing scientific and political ideas. As a child reading the novel, I loved Meg and Charles Wallace, they were my best friends. But upon revisiting the story in my late-teens, I realized that the book is not only the story of the Murray children, but is also a cleverly disguised criticism of communism and other social systems.

The Washington Post recently published an article of appreciation. The reporter, Monica Hesse, completely captured my sentiment about the novel and L'Engle's brilliant writing.

I think her final graf sums up the affect L'Engle's writing had on so many awkward, uncomfortable teens and then the later discovery of a club of-sorts, of avid "Wrinkle" fans, "All those years ago, with your patchwork quilt and your instant hot chocolate and your despairing belief in your own monstrosity, you hadn't been alone after all."

Madeleine L'Engle's writing is storytelling in its most accelerated form. She adeptly transcended the "children's novel" category of literature and pushed cunningly past to a realm of classicism, punctuated by layers of meaning, beautifully crafted characters and just a good story.

to begin again

I noticed the other day a quote on a friend's Web site, saying something about "Can a change of address change your life?" It's strange when you realize you've done something to alter your life completely. In a good way, to be sure. But forever different my life will be after being away for so long.

Upon returning to campus I've noticed that in most ways, I'm beginning again here. I walk around and run into a few people I know, but not many. I've reached the point at Elon where most of my friends are leaving at the end of the year, and since being gone, I have very few who are younger than me.

In addition to the metamorphosis of friendships, I've returned to a school that looks strikingly different from the one I left. Buildings are popping up everywhere. Fountains, trees and pathways have materialized over a six-month stretch of absence. It's disconcerting, really, to find my old haunts re-purposed and left behind in favor of newer, more modern things.

I've decided to do some re-purposing of my own. I kept this blog during my semester abroad as a way to stay in touch with my friends and family in the U.S., and as a way to document my experiences and musings on cultural differences. I've found myself lacking that outlet, and have decided to begin again.

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.

reading railroad

I've always been a 'people-watcher.' It's not really staring so much as it is just observing. Perhaps that's just a euphemism, but I've never thought it was creepy or weird because I've always known that everyone does it. Admit it. You know you do too.

Recently on the Tube, I've noticed what people do to pass the time. While most are engrossed in some form of musical entertainment blasting into their ears via little white earbud speakers, there are still a select few who actually use their commutes to enjoy the written word. As a journalism major, London astounds me at its fairly decent selection of free newspapers that are handed out just outside the Tube stations. The LondonLite, in my opinion, is a rag and has very little substantive news value, but the London Paper and the Metro are actually fairly quality journalism. Because of the can't-be-beat price of the news in this town (um, it's free, hello!), I'm convinced that London is far better informed than DC, where there are only two major subscription papers (London has about 6) and only one free paper (London has about 3).

But even more striking than if someone is reading in general, is if they're reading a book. Today, I had the interesting experience of sitting next to two people who were not only reading, but reading self-help books. The first was a man reading about how to preserve his inner artist. It was going on and on about negative self-images and how that kills creativity and how you must counter-act the negative with a more positive statement... Repeat after me: I, (your name), am an excellent artist whose gift is a way to be closer to the highest form of understanding and being... not even kidding...

The second reader was a woman engrossed in a title that was something like, 'How to Get What You Want and Want What You Have...' Of course, being the Londoner, I started reading over their shoulders. Personally, I would not want some random busy-body like myself reading over my shoulder if I was reading something that was basically teaching me how to become my own personal cheerleader. There's something strangely ironic about someone who has enough self-confidence to read a self-help book on the subway. But to also be so unconfident as to actually feel like they need a self-help book in the first place.

I will forever be more conscious of what I read on the tube. I know that since I'm looking and reading over your shoulder, some day next week, you'll be looking and reading over mine.

czech me out

Skipping back in time a little, I should probably talk about my birthday before spring break. I had a wonderful 20th birthday. The girls in my flat pulled out all the stops for me. I woke up to a bouquet of roses from Lily and Keiko and a pair of earings from Scotland from Mandy. I then promptly consumed Pop Tarts from my care package from Mom and then talked to both sets of parents. After that, we went to the London Eye. It was a beautiful, clear day. We could see for miles. It was perfect. My birthday was Red Nose Day - a Comic Relief Festival to help Africa and some English schools. It was really funny to see people walking around London in red clown noses. But I found out today that the festival raised 7 million pounds. I'm happy to share my birthday with such an excellent event. The night was spent at dinner at a noodle joint called Tuk Tuk and then at a few pubs. It was a good time.

This post really should just be full of photos, but it takes forever to load them. So I've uploaded them to another Web site. Here's the link so you can enjoy my pictures from Prague. Unfortunately, the pictures are in backwards order, so start from the end and work backwards if you can.

The trip was wonderful. The city has such amazing character and history. Prague has survived so much - it's one of the only European cities to have much of the original architecture from before the second world war. It was left basically unscathed and because of that, the whinding cobble stone streets are packed tight with beautifully ornate Baroque, Romanesque and Gothic buildings. It's an architectural wonderland, and I had a fabulous time wandering around with Olivia, getting lost and exploring a city that has seen hundreds of years of kings, the dark years of Communist rule and is now a modernized member of globalized Europe.

We didn't have as much trouble as we thought we would with the language. Both Olivia and I printed out little pocket guides to Czech. I can now say about 4 words (please, yes, no, beer, wine... that's about it) in Czech. Most everyone spoke English, so it wasn't a big deal.

It was great seeing my dad and staying in the hotel with him. We stayed at the InterContinental. It's a 5 star hotel and the room came complete with a hot tub, a sauna, tons of bath products which we pilfered, a queen size bed, slippers and a rubber duck. Yes, that's right. A rubber duck. He disappeared after the first night - not because we took him, we don't know where he went. We used the hot tub a few nights because it was so terribly cold outside. But despite the frigid temperatures, we had an amazing time.

The only bummer came when we tried to come back to London. Our flight was delayed about 6 hours. We were supposed to leave Prague at 8:50 pm. We didn't end up leaving until 4:15 am. That put us into London around 5:30 am. We got to our beds at 7:45. It was miserable. I was so tired yesterday, and I'm a little sick, so that didn't help the situation. Unfortunately, because we flew easyJet, it doesn't look like we're going to see any sort of compensation for our time or trouble. It's really too bad, because I would feel a whole lot better about their airline if they actually cared that I was a zombie all day yesterday. Oh well. We made it, and we made some good friends at the airport while we waited. We ended up talking to these two girls from Bristol and playing card games with them for the majority of the time. It passed quickly enough, so it wasn't so horrible, and if anything, it's a good story, right?

But now, the fun is over and it's back to real life. I started my internship back up today and class starts again tomorrow.

More soon.

B