Walking that thin line between love and hate...

Today whilst attempting to open a bank account here in London, I wrote the following snippet-- behold, a snapshot into my mind in the midst of breakdown (and please excuse the colorful language)--

"I hate this g****** country. I hate bureaucracy. I hate that I can't open a g****** normal-ass bank account without producing two thousand kinds of documentation and a blood sample. I want a nap, some g****** funding, a puppy, and a strong drink. And then I want to find a store that sells some g****** down comforters, sheets that don't feel like sandpaper, and a pharmacy that stays open past noon. And I would like someone to introduce this country to some m-f 3M hooks."

Okay, so I don't actually hate this country. In fact I kind of love it. But there comes a point where a girl has simply had enough of red tape and being lost and not knowing what the hell people are saying even though supposedly they're speaking the same language, and said girl starts to wonder why the hell she ever left a place where she already had a bank account and an apartment (not a flat-ha) and knew what things were when she walked into a grocery store.

So what did I do in the midst of aforementioned mini-meltdown, which might I add took place in the middle of a bank? Well to my credit I did not curse at the bank staff or start crying or storm off. Instead I just sat down. On the floor. In the middle of an HSBC branch. And wrote the aforementioned curse-laden entry. And if you think sitting down in the middle of a bank doesn't sound all that radical, clearly you've never been to the UK. They adore order here. It is almost like a religion. You don't cut the queue, you don't stare at people at the street, and you don't sit down on the floor in public places. They didn't quite know what to do with me. People just sort of skirted my general area the same way you would circumvent the general area of a mad dog.

One brave employee finally came up to me and asked if I was tired of standing, to which I replied that I was "tired of a great many things." (Some of you may not know this but I tend to get just the teensiest bit dramatic when I'm upset.) Thankfully my new bank friend Kofi wasn't too fazed by my American weirdness (though in this case I don't even know if I can use American as my excuse-- it might just be Jocelyn weirdness), and decided to be a gentleman and sit on the floor with me while he tried to explain the idiocy of British banking (turns out American banking is its own kind of idiocy- more on that later).

Thankfully, by the time Kofi and I had finished our chat, I had calmed down enough to appreciate the walk back to my flat and the colorful array of shops I pass along the way: "Secrets" table-dancing cabaret, "Transformations" she-male boutique (their words, not mine), not to mention the multi-pierced man trying to foist fliers for a tattoo parlor on me (because maybe if it's two-for-one, suddenly that super-classy serpent tattoo will seem like a good idea)... And suddenly I was back in love with London.