The [Not-So-] Quiet American

Obligatory post on the London Riots - From Where I Stand

2011-08-10T05:13:00.000-07:00

First I will ease everyone's mind by assuring you all that this Not So Quiet American is (so far) safe and well amidst the unrest that is currently plaguing my beloved city. One of the benefits of living in an underground bunker on the edge of a posh neighbourhood at the top of a hill is that most looters really can't be arsed to go so far out of their way to wreak havoc. (Though I am thinking of utilising the situation to convince my landlord to let me get a dog, for protection purposes and all. I have already named said imaginary future dog Valentina Bellissima James, Teeny Billie James for short.)

Anyway, given the preponderance of both news and opinion pieces on the riots, I didn't really intend to add to the pile by writing on it myself. I figured everything worth saying was already being said by someone better at saying it than me. But I was wrong. Because in everything I've come across about the riots, I feel like something very obvious is being ignored: The Middle Ground. Maybe it's because The Middle Ground doesn't make for good headlines, or punchy snap judgements, or nicely drawn lines in the sand that you can stand on either side of. Unfortunately for everyone (myself included) who sometimes wishes things were painted in nice clear shades of black and white, the middle ground is often where the reality of things can be found. And I am pretty convinced that this is the case with the London riots.

Yes, the burning and looting is about chronic economic oppression and community disenfranchisement and inequality and unemployment and slashed benefits. It is about people who can't afford to consume being bombarded on a daily basis with messages of consumerism, overt and subliminal. It is about this tension between societal fantasy and economic reality finally boiling over in a very nasty way.

But guess what? It is also about greed, and opportunism, and violence for the sake of violence. It is about an unfortunate situation being hijacked and used as an opportunity to acquire material goods and vent garden-variety angst. Mob mentality is a well-documented and frightening phenomenon, and I am willing to bet that a good percentage of the people who chose to throw petrol bombs at police cars and torch businesses did so just because they felt like it, and because everyone else was doing it, and because this mob mentality provides invisibility and invincibility. I am willing to bet that a lot of the people in these mobs weren't thinking about social disenfranchisement so much as they were thinking that it might be a good time to anonymously smash up a Curry's and make off with a new flat-screen.

So let's acknowledge both sides. Let's acknolwedge that something is seriously f***ed-up in our society and the time has come to do something about it. Let's acknowledge that slashing public funds and youth programme budgets and health services is maybe not the best way of pulling ourselves out of economic ruin.

But let's also acknowledge that disenfranchisement or not, mob mentality or not, people make choices. Usually, these choices have reasons behind them; there is a socio-psychological explanation for most things that happen and most things that people do. Remembering this allows us to stop ourselves from demonizing the people and the choices they make, because we glimpse the reasoning, however flawed, behind them. But let's not forget that people do, in fact, make choices. The people rioting in the London streets, however disenfranchised or frustrated or ignored, made the choice to smash in the high street windows, set their neighbours' houses on fire, and destroy livelihoods. And the truly sad thing is that the bulk of the effects are being and will be felt not by the upper classes and government officials supposedly being demonstrated against, but by regular Londoners who may be just as marginalised as the rioters. Just because you refrain from demonizing someone doesn't mean you let them off the hook. The people wreaking havoc in the streets of London are not innocent victims of oppression, whose actions are to be defended at all costs; nor are they mindless, soulless perpetrators of violence at which we should feel free to direct or project our own anger and fear over the occurrences of the past few days. They are people: people who made choices to destroy and take things that weren't theirs to destroy and take, for various assorted reasons which humanize but do not vindicate.

So let's acknowledge that the riots of the past few days are indeed symptomatic of a greater societal ill that desperately needs to be addressed; but let's not kid ourselves into thinking that this great societal ill has somehow eroded free will and left rioters with no other choice than to burn and steal.

I don't doubt that this Middle Ground approach is going to attract a fair amaount of ire from both sides of the Line in the Sand. And to said hypothetical ire, I say: Balanced, greyscale viewpoints are often not very popular. They tend to avoid demonization and offer no scapegoat or easy answers. But to be quite frank, I don't think any easy answers exist here; and from where I stand, looking for them is bound to lead to one extreme or the other.

Operation Golddigger

2011-03-31T06:36:00.000-07:00

So, my adoring public (read: 2 people) has been clamoring for a new post, and since so much has changed in my life over the past couple of months I feel it's only fair to give the people (read: those 2 aforementioned people) what they want.

You may recall from my last post that I was unemployed, living in the ghetto, and on the verge of full-blown alcoholism. Well I am happy to report that I have got two out of those three things sorted! That's right, I have moved house and am now in gainful employment. Hurray! I'm working (on a temporary but indefinite contract) as a research secretary in the Forensic Psychiatry Unit of Queen Mary University of London/St. Bart's Hospital. It sounds fancy but really, I am just the Unit Bitch. It's fine though, because achieving employment meant I could finally (re)-fulfill one of those all-important Milestones to Adulthood (no, I haven't got a dog-- there will probably be skywriting and a press release when that happens); but I am once more LIVING ALONE. And loving it. A stupid amount. Going back to living alone has done for me what Ecstasy does to drunken ravers: made me want to hug everyone I see, and then drink lots of water. Haha! Kidding about the water part. But anyway, after sacrificing my personal space (and a great deal of my sanity) in order to afford London for the first year and a half that I lived here, moving back into a place of my own has been a dream come true. I found the perfect little studio/one-bedroom in one of my favourite neighbourhoods, and am currently in the process of making it into The Cutest Flat Anyone Has Ever Seen.

I am also in the process of doing all the boring, tedious things associated with moving house, like waiting around all day for a furniture delivery (it never arrived), and registering with my local GP. The latter I did this morning, and in the process discovered a whole new area of London that I am obsessed with. As I walked up the street perpindicular to my flat, I could feel the atmosphere around me getting incrementally more posh with each step, until I started seeing houses that weren't attached to each other, which in my London mind is pretty much equivalent to the height of luxury. Then, I started seeing chandeliers through the windows of front rooms and I heard a small voice in my head whisper "You belong here." As if that weren't enough, halfway up the road I ran into a woman walking her beagle-- BEAGLE-- and I had my Revelation of the Day: I was going to be a golddigger. It really seems to be the way forward in these uncertain economic times, and besides, I like older men. Unfortunately, about a block later I discovered a fly in the ointment: I may be too picky to be a golddigger. There was a gentleman walking on the other side of the street and I thought, "Aha! My first prey!" ...Until I came up alongside him and realised that his look just didn't really do it for me-- his hat was just a bit too red and didn't really go with his three-piece suit. So for now, I guess I'll just ensconce myself in my little one-bedroomed Moroccan-themed nuclear bunker (did I mention I live in a basement flat?) on the edge of Poshville and wait for someone wearing a three-piece suit sans red hat to come along.

Why pink, not unemployment, is my color

2011-01-17T15:06:00.000-08:00

Unemployment is NOT a good color on me. Practical reasons aside (needing to pay rent, buy food, and pander to the UK's ridiculous notion of what a visa application should cost *cough* £550 *cough VOMIT*), it turns out that having no structure to my days-- no deadlines, no one relying on me to show up anywhere, no external expectations-- is a death sentence to my personal motivation, personal hygiene, and overall personal well-being. Unfortunately, watching my bank account dip lower and lower doesn't motivate me into getting off my ass, it paralyzes me into a fetal position in my bed, watching TV in the vain hope that producing as little movement as possible will result in needing to eat less, which will result in needing to buy less food, which will result in less damage to my sad, sad bank account. Even less fortunately, this bad logic isn't entirely unfounded, seeing as how faffing about in my pajamas all day whilst watching unlimited free TV online does in fact save on tube/bus fare and avoids shopping temptations.

This positive reinforcement (spending less money) of a very negative idea (becoming a house-bound, occasionally-showering, alcoholic sloth) does not help me in kicking my all-too-quickly-formed bad habits (drinking wine at 3 pm after sleeping til noon and watching 7 episodes of Cougar Town). I seem to lack the self-motivation to get out of this unflattering rut because even though I want to not be the girl that sleeps til noon, eats crisps for breakfast, and watches bad TV for 9 out of the 10 hours she's up, I somehow wake up every morning and am still her. So unfair. I can't seem to make myself change, so I grasp onto any shred of outside assistance that might break the pajama-sleep-wine cycle. I find myself actually agreeing to meeting with friends before 11 am (GASP) simply because I know it will at least force me to shower and slap some makeup on my despondent face. I schedule unhelpful meetings with recruitment consultants because hey-- at least they'll judge me if i show up inebriated at 1 pm, thus forcing me to have a normal lunch of a sandwich and juice. If I can't make myself do what's good for me, maybe someone else can. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go finish watching Piranha 3D and drinking my Kronenbourg 1664.

Sometimes you leave your gloves on the Night Bus...

2011-01-13T16:39:00.000-08:00

...and end up crying about it for twenty minutes straight. And sometimes, about 7 minutes in, you realize you're not actually crying about your gloves. Sure, it's sad that you lost them-- after all they were your favorites, and they were pink, and they kept your hands nice and toasty in the damp London winter-- but it turns out you're not ACTUALLY expending all your emotional energy on weeping for a pair of hand accessories. It turns out the losing of the gloves was just what you needed to unleash that pent-up wave of sad you'd been storing since you found out your grandfather had a heart attack and your little doggie nephew passed away.

This is what happens to me fairly often-- traumatic things will occur in my life, I'll seemingly take them in stride, and then something that is for all intents and purposes unfortunate but inconsequential will happen and the DAM WILL BURST. It's happened so many times now that I almost expect it. Okay I don't *almost* expect it, I *do* expect it; in fact, I can very nearly predict when one of these dam bursts will happen-- it's just that I can't ever exactly predict *what* will make the dam burst. This time around I knew I was due for one, but I could've sworn it was going to be something dumb and boy-related that set it off; instead, it was dumb and accessory-related. Who knew? What I do know is that these dam bursts, while perhaps apparently insane, are not in fact unhealthy. They are what my emotional self needs in order to experience catharsis, deal with it, and then move (slowly) on. I'm not saying that after one of these expected yet unexpected floods I am totally and completely healed; there are usually still little cracks in my soul, and sometimes the cracks scar over into permanent marks. But through these natural disasters I somehow expel the biggest essence of the tragedy that my soul was experiencing, and when I come to the other side I am more able to cope with the aftermath. And then I pick myself up and go to Primark and buy some new gloves.

My dissertation may be the final nail in my coffin of madness...

2010-08-21T07:09:00.000-07:00

Things I have consumed in the last 24 hours:

Leftover Chinese takeaway (for breakfast)
Banana smoothie
Sea Salted popcorn (for lunch)
2 mini doughnuts
Half a marzipan chocolate bar
1 packet crisps
Half a can of chickpeas
1 miniature bottle red wine

That's right ladies and gentlemen, I am in the middle of yet another essay-writing/procrastination-crisis. Only this one is unlike any of the others before it, for this one is an epic, 15,000-word full-on Dissertation Crisis. If I thought being cooped up in my room for 3 straight days on a 6000-word law essay bender was bad, I found myself completely unprepared for the hostage situation that is my dissertation. I (and many of my coursemates) have found myself teetering on the brink of insanity for weeks now as I waffle between wanting to get my thesis done SO BAD that I just word-vomit whatever comes into my mind, and being so completely overwhelmed that I stare at a blank Word document for hours on end in the middle of the Institute of Advanced Legal Studies library while other, more competent, students around me type away breezily on their laptops. (Dear More Competent Students: I hate you.)

This delusion slash denial manifests itself in odd ways, sometimes popping up in the form of maniacal procrastinatory shopping sprees (WHOOPS), and other times making itself known through spurious and superfluous (KA-CHINGGGG, two 50-cent words in one sentence!) email exchanges like the one below, between myself and a (freaking hilarious) coursemate:
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From: Jocelyn James [in response to a job posting sent out for which I did not qualify]
Sent: Tue 17/08/2010 13:49
To: Deniz Ugur
Subject: RE:

i like that you have to be a national of a commonwealth country... how rude... they are just angry because america threw off the shackles of commonwealth-osity... xxxxxxxxxxxxx

ps i miss you

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From: Deniz Ugur
Sent: Tue 8/17/2010 2:03 PM
To: Jocelyn James
Subject: RE:

they are! I have the EXACT conversation with my boss/the queen everyday. I tell them that its about time they got over it, and that its a stoopid redundant term anyway... and thats why i probably ain't getting my contract extended. Cool.

Hows it going anyway love?

I'm at work today and have somehow managed not to do a single stitch of work! i'm sort of proud..?!

I got my dissertation bound last week, it went down a storm in the academic circles field so i'm just in talks with Penguin publishing house who want to turn it into a collection of short stories on hate speech.

p(loppy)s(hit) - i miss you tooooooooo!!!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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From: Jocelyn James
Sent: Wed 18/08/2010 00:51
To: Deniz Ugur
Subject: RE:

so glad to hear you've got your dissertation done and dusted. when i heard you hadn't finished it by last month i was beginning to panic on your behalf.

i of course had mine done before the course even started. as a matter of fact, i came out of the womb with a tiny dissertation in my hand, and i've just been expounding upon it in the intervening years. i'm just waiting to hand it in til they invent the exact proper paper on which to print it... i'm thinking something eco-friendly, pink, and lightly scented, possibly with small sustainably-mined gold flecks in. plans are in the works by 2 leading paper companies and i'm just waiting to see which finished product i prefer.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From: Deniz Ugur
Sent: Wed 8/18/2010 10:09 AM
To: Jocelyn James
Subject: RE:

I was up till 3 in the morn watching shows about fat brides and now at work... meant to be writing stuff about human rights in zambia but all i can see is very very very large women in wedding dresses weeping. and it just doesn't feel right..

hugsssssssssssssss!!! xxx

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That's right, I/we have now resorted to delusional projections of camaraderie with royalty, fabricated ramblings about early dissertation completion, and voyeuristic reality TV show viewing in an attempt keep the sheer terror of our September 3rd hand-in date at bay. So to all of you out there who find yourselves occasionally thinking, 'Hm, a Masters degree might be a fun way to pass the next year/two years/three years of my life', please consider yourselves warned. Unless you are prepared to get up close and personal with all kinds of your own crazy, cherish that Bachelors degree/high school diploma/GED/adult learning certificate as though it were your own offspring and consider the fact that although you may not be able to put 'Masters Degree' under the 'Education' portion of your CV, you will most likely be able to truthfully put 'clinically sane' under 'Qualifications.'

Brussels: Where fashion goes to die

2010-07-03T02:05:00.000-07:00

First of all, I have to apologise (that's right, sometimes I spell things in British-ese now) to my adoring public for having been so neglectful of my blog... no posts for TWO MONTHS?? Unacceptable, I say. And I'm sure you say the same. Who cares if I had two 6000-word essays, a dissertation abstract, and a 3-hour exam to deal with in May and June?? That's no excuse for Blog Silence. So here to rectify that is this lovely little reflection on Brussels (crimes against) fashion...

I recently took a little jaunt across the Channel to meet up with the legendary Stephen Gire in Brussels as he was on his way back from a little two-month sojourn in rural Congo (ask him about it, he *loves* the food on offer-- goat kneecap was a favorite). Needless to say, after two months of mosquito nets and river fish, he was ready for some good old European food and fun. (And of course I am *always* ready for some good old European food and fun, that's why I live here.) What neither of us was ready for was the tragic fashion (shit)show that is Brussels, Belgium. Last time I checked, Brussels was situated pretty squarely in between London and Paris, which are both pretty much Awesome Fashion Central, so imagine my surprise when I found that Brussels had somehow not got the memo that it too should be fashion-conscious like its fabulous neighbors. The thing is, it must have got SOME sort of memo filtered down from its fashion-forward sister cities because you can tell that people are TRYING to be trendy. But unfortunately something got lost in translation because they are failing oh-so-miserably. At one point I mentioned to Stephen that I found it strange there weren't any American Apparel stores in Brussels-- after all they are pretty much EVERYWHERE (I think they may have just opened one in rural Congo, right next to the goat kneecap restaurant). Stephen's response: "Yeah, you're right... wow, it's a really tragic day when an American Apparel would be an improvement on local fashion." WELL SPOTTED, Stephen, well spotted. Don't get me wrong, I love me some American Apparel-- but please note I said *some* American Apparel-- like their t-shirts and the occasional dress. You're fooling yourself if you don't think they've got some fugly stuff for sale up in that store, so you know the situation is dire when putting in an AA would be like setting up a fashion mecca for the poor misdirected Brusselians (Brusselese? Brusselers?).

One of the best (read: worst) contributions to the fashion arena came from a woman who wandered in to a bar where Stephen and I were enjoying the most expensive water of our entire lives. (8 euros for two bottles. YEP.) Anyway, this 35-to-40-ish-year-old woman walked in with her 8-ish-year-old daughter in tow and at first I didn't think anything of it as I was too busy having a small stroke over how much I had just paid for water. It wasn't until the woman got up from her table to take a picture of her daughter that my fashion sense (and indeed my common decency sense) got the wind knocked out of it. The woman was wearing TIGHTS (you know, those semi-sheer things with a CROTCH PANEL) as TROUSERS. Now, it's bad enough when I see girls sporting leggings with a short little t-shirt that comes nowhere near covering their ass, but at least I don't get a money shot of their undies. But this woman had it all on display-- undies, crotch panel, the whole nine yards. (I guess I should be grateful that she was at least WEARING undies.) It was appalling. I couldn't stop talking about it the rest of the week. We'd be out to dinner and I'd say with a shudder, "Ohhhh, remember the woman with the tights?? What was she THINKING??" And I came to the conclusion that she must have been thinking one of two things. Thought Process Number 1: "Hmmm, I've seen people wearing legging-type bottoms and tunics, and it looks really cute. Oh look, I have some like that! [finds tights buried in wardrobe] I'll pair these with that loose waist-length cotton top I got at the Moroccan flea market and it'll be the exact same look! And while I'm at it I definitely won't look at myself in the mirror from behind before I leave the house." Thought Process Number 2: "Hmmm, I want to wear something kind of trendy/sexy today. Ooh, I'll wear these form-fitting semi-sheer tights! And to balance them out I'll wear my loose-fitting cotton shirt on top-- don't want to overdo the sexy! Ooh, look at me from behind-- there's just the faintest hint of undies. Perfect!"

Thought Process Number 1 makes me sad as two sad things because she's just utterly oblivious to the fact that she's flashing everyone some ass cheek and if she found out she'd probably be unbelievably embarrassed. And Thought Process Number 2 pains me equally because if that is her definition of trendy/sexy then something has gone terribly wrong somewhere along the way, probably due to an absentee father, or watching some really bad fashion shows. So Brussels, here's my advice to you: stick to what you know (waffles, beer, chocolate) and leave the trend-setting to the people that know you shouldn't leave the house when we can all get a good glimpse of the floral pattern on your Hanes Her Ways. And if you're from Brussels and you're reading this, please don't come and kill me in my sleep for insulting your fair city's (lack of) fashion sense.

Media Project

2010-04-25T15:54:00.000-07:00

So our most recent affliction in terms of course assignments was a 'media project.' Sounds interesting, right?? I thought so. In fact, part of the reason I chose not to drop this particular module during spring term was because I thought this assignment sounded 'creative' and we ALL know I have no trouble with creative. Well, turns out ye olde media project was just another way to get us to write about human rights in development (not like I hadn't already written a 2500-word essay on that last month), and not the arts-fest I was hoping for. Strictly no paintings allowed (how discriminatory!). So I kept it boring and wrote an article for my internship on child rights because I really couldn't be bothered to do any of the other (two) things we were allowed to do: make a video, or create a podcast. You know what those things are code for? Thinking you're taking the easy way out and then realizing halfway through that you are totally screwed. The thought process is something like this: "Hmmmm, write another bajillion words, or pick up my camera and make a video of something?? VIDEO PLEASE!!!" At least that is how it's gone for me in the past. But due to these past experiences, I know that despite what I may think at the outset, writing a bajillion words will actually take me a lot. less. time. than trying to put together a decent video. So as mentioned, I took the boring road more traveled and threw together a charity blog post. But my clever and lovely friend put me to shame and made an amazing and creative video... check it out here!

Somebody needs to tell the British...

2010-03-28T10:09:00.001-07:00

...to stop being so G-D polite. Because it is making it *way* too hard for me to figure out what people are thinking. And by 'people' yes I mean boys. See, in America, if a guy doesn't want to see you, or isn't interested in you, he will simply IGNORE YOU. I used to think this was annoying. I used to do the typical "ohhhh, why hasn't he called meee," the whole tragic waiting-by-the-phone scenario, ad nauseum, ad infinitum, and of course it used to bug the crap out of me. UNTIL, that is, I moved here and realized that at least when a guy just doesn't call, you KNOW he's 'just not that into you.' There is very little decoding to be done aside from "Do you think he isn't calling because my hair was flat that night, or because I sang Little Mermaid at the top of my lungs in the bar?" And so after a few days go by, you delete his number from your phone and you stop waiting for the call that isn't coming.

Not so the British!! The British are faaaaar too polite to just NOT CALL. That would be positively appalling. The Queen might get word of it and rescind her invitation to tea! (P.S. Queen, if you're reading this, I'm slightly offended that I haven't received my invitation yet-- for heaven's sake I've been in the country for six months!) Anyway, British boys feel the need to text you/call you/say polite things to you even when they wish you'd bugger off to Australia (or in my case, they're probably just praying for my extradition back to America).

Example 1: A couple of months ago, I met a lovely fellow (let's call him Shmyla) with whom I was quite taken. I figured I had nothing to lose (pride? dignity? what are those?), so I got his number and gave him a call. He didn't answer, so I left a nice little voice mail. NOW. In America, the uninterested party would get the voicemail, think to themselves "Oh crap I've got another psycho on my hands," delete said voicemail, and not return the call. But in ENGLAND, I don't even KNOW what they think to themselves because what happens is they return the call, leave a message containing some vague reference to being a bit busy at the mo, but so as not to appear rude they tell you to GIVE THEM A CALL BACK. For an American, that is Mixed Message Central. It's like-- on the one hand, you're being given the typical 'oh sorry so busy' line, but then just when you're about to give up hope, they throw out the 'oh but give me a call back to chat!' line and resurrect your hope-osity. And when you DO call them back, they tell you the same thing they told you on the voice mail: that they are ever so busy and couldn't possibly squeeze you in. At this point you FINALLY realize you're being turned down, but you wonder WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH they didn't just let you realize that a LONG-ASS TIME AGO by ignoring your call?? Or-- and this one is REALLY crazy-- just SAYING SO??

Example 2: And you thought I'd just have one rejection story! How sweet. So this time I meet a friend of a friend (let's call him Shmalex), we are all getting drinks and having a grand old time, and Shmalex and I are having a bit of a flirt. Shmalex seems quite interested, until it is time to go home and he doesn't even OFFER to walk me back to make sure I don't die along the way (WHERE WAS YOUR PRECIOUS POLITENESS THEN HMMM??? the Queen would be so disappointed.) Anyway, the next day I get a text which says the following:
"I'm pretty booked for a while now-- but yeah after I'm done it would be nice to meet up... Kind regards, Shmalex."
Yep, Shmalex signed off his text with 'Kind regards.' ARE WE WRITING A CV?? Carrie from Sex and the City once said, "My point, Billy, is that there is a good way to break up with someone, and it doesn't include a Post-It." So let me just say, "My point, Males of Britain, is that there is a right way to tell someone you're not interested, and signing off with 'Kind Regards' is not one of them." Nor is saying yes, maybe when you mean a big fat NO.

And yes, I wrote this post instead of writing the 3000-word essay on Iraqi genocide that is due tomorrow... You've got to have your priorities!! :)

Dear Law Case Essay...

2010-01-08T13:33:00.000-08:00

...I hate you. Therefore, I am taking a break from the whopping 700 words I have so far managed to force out and writing this blog. (Hmmm, there seems to be a theme here in these past couple of blog entries...) Oh hold the phone- just did a word count and I've actually got 800 words- LOOK OUT WORLD. Anyway, I and the three glasses of wine I have so far consumed this evening thought it would be an appropriate time to fill in my public on the ridiculous (but oh-so-typically-Jocelyn) events of the last ten days...

Well as many of you know, I spent my Christmas here in London. Please don't start getting all pathetic and feeling sorry for me, because it was actually quite fun. It was my first 'grown-up' Christmas, and I cooked [vegetarian] Christmas dinner for myself and two friends, and it wasn't a complete disaster (a miracle by itself given the sad state of British ovens), and we drank wine and had a grand old polenta-with-goat-cheese time. I did, however, get to head to America right after Christmas to spend a little QT (that's Quality Time for you uninitiated) with my Stateside fam and friends. This was, of course, uber-fun and awesome (my parents are adorable and parent-y as ever, my sis and her husband still think I'm lovably insane, my tiny canine niece and nephew are still so cute it makes me want to cry, Stephen still puts up with me and my semi-alcoholic needy abandonment issues, and all my other Boston friends are still fun and fabulous and make me miss them when I leave), but the real adventures happened during the travels to and from London.

Now, I will give anyone ten dollars if they can guess who I sat behind en route from Heathrow to Los Angeles (I won't actually, but it's a good way to start a fun guessing game)... Anyway, it was FABIO. Yes, *the* Fabio of male-model-romance-novel fame. Naturally I had to strike up a conversation with him, but I couldn't just be one of those sad desperate people that ask 'Excuse me, are you so-and-so???' and whip out their camera and autograph pad. I am [obvi] much too sophisticated for that. So instead I lent Fabs a pen when he needed to fill out his landing card, and this led to several hours of chat. Turns out he is super-nice, and has four dogs, and gave me money so that I could call my sis from a payphone when we landed late in LA and I missed my connection. Quel gentleman! We also got talking on the subject of food (he was horrified that I'm a vegetarian), and he offered to take me to Nobu (that super-expensive Japanese restaurant that I can't afford because I'm a humanity-saving human rights student) if I was ever in LA or he was in London. So I can't seem to get a boyfriend like any other normal person, but apparently I have no trouble getting asked out by Fabio on international plane rides.

And lest you think my adventures ended with my flight to the States-- fear not! My flight back to London, while in itself uneventful, was the beginning of a 7-hour-long saga of trying to get back to my flat. My plane from Boston landed at Heathrow precisely on time at 9:00 p.m. No worries, right? I still have plenty of time to get through immigration and onto the Tube before it closes at midnight, right?? WRONG. Who knew I could be so wrong about so many things in this lifetime?? Anyway, after landing on time, our pilot informed us that we did not currently have access to a gate because of delays due to 'weather.' I looked out my window and wondered what on God's beautiful earth he was talking about because the sky was clear and there was only about half an inch of snow on the ground-- and NONE on the runway. If they thought this was 'weather', I kindly invite them to stay awhile in my not-so-well-heated loft apartment in Boston in the middle of January. Anyway, due to this supposed 'weather', we were forced to laze about on the runway for an hour and a half until the rest of the planes cleared out of the way and it was our turn to have a gate. Sweet relief! right?? WRONG. AGAIN. Upon disembarking from my aluminium bird of a prison, I walked directly into the most heinous immigration line I have ever encountered in my LIFE (and I have encountered some HEINOUS immigration lines in my little 23-year-span). This was like the Dowager Empress of all immigration lines. It snaked around and around and out the damn door and up the stairs of the corridor... When I saw it, a little part of me died inside. In typical American fashion I thought, "SURELY this isn't my line!! Surely we Americans have a special line where we don't have to wait!" Silly, over-privileged, American Jocelyn. I had to wait just like every other person on that plane (except the UK/EU nationals-- they DO IN FACT have a special line that goes about 14 times as fast as the "All Other Passports" queue). Anyway, I resigned myself to the hideous entity that is Heathrow Immigrations and proceeded to wait in queue for THREE HOURS. At one point, an immigration officer came round asking if anyone had small children-- if so, they were allowed to move to the front of the line. I and the man in front of me briefly considered temporarily kidnapping a toddler across from us just to preserve our sanity, until I realized that the line was so long we could probably just get married, get me knocked up, and birth our own child in the time it took us to reach the front (though we opted against this option as well).

What seemed lifetimes later (but was, as aforementioned, three hours), I exited Heathrow (or as is now fondly referred by me, Deathrow) and undertook the task of getting back to my flat. OF COURSE the Tube was closed. It closes at midnight, and due to my interminable wait in Immigration it was now 1:30 a.m. This meant that I had to navigate the ridiculously confusing and always unreliable Night Bus system, which naturally had no direct routes from Heathrow to my flat. Instead, I deduced that I'd have to take a bus from the airport to Trafalgar Square in Central London, and from there to my neighborhood in Northwest Central. Now, if you've ever had to take the Night Bus from anywhere besides Central London, you know it stops approximately every five feet and therefore takes about a hundred years to get anywhere. My bus was no exception. It took me an hour and a half just to get to Trafalgar, whereupon I attempted to switch to my local Night Bus which would take me home. But last time I checked I was in fact the Queen of Drama and Things Not Going As Planned, so of course my situation had to be further complicated by the fact that I had run out of money on my Oyster Card and the bus I was trying to get on didn't accept cash. Oh-- and the ticket machine at the bus stop was broken. I shit you not. Given that at this point it was three in the morning, you might think the bus driver would take pity on a poor lonely soul like myself, obviously just trying to make it home after an exceedingly long night of travel. YOU WOULD BE WRONG. The bus driver basically shouted at me to get off the bus, and the two police officers standing just outside were equally as sympathetic and helpful. I was told by all three gentlemen that I would just have to walk to the next bus stop where the ticket machine was working, and get a bus from there. NEAT. If you thought I was walking another FOOT at three in the morning and in an unfortunately sober state of mind, you had another think coming. I proceeded to step in front of the bus and hail a lovely, convenient, taxi cab which transported me home in a matter of minutes (with me weeping in the backseat due to Travel Complication Overload). Never have I been so thankful to a cabbie, and never have I been so thankful for my tiny, single-sized bed.

But lest you think all is tragic and my life a mess, worry not-- I've just gotten an e-mail from my new BFF Fabio telling me he's probably going to be in London in March and would love to see me. Clearly, my life is all glam...

What I'm writing instead of my essay...

2009-12-22T09:07:00.000-08:00

...is this blog post. Because after the dreams I've had SEVERAL nights in a row, followed by a particularly traumatizing few minutes of facebook-album gazing, I feel compelled to put into words just how thankful I am that I am no longer in high school. Though really, there are no words that can adequately express my feelings.

As it is for many adolescents, high school was a somewhat hideous experience for me. I don't mean that *I* was hideous-- au contraire: after rifling through my old photo albums before moving to London, I discovered that I was a hot little shit (after I got the braces off anyway). Oh how I wish Grad School Jocelyn could've appeared to High School Jocelyn and let her know she was smokin' (I'd also probably slip High School Jocelyn a flask of wine and tell her to use it in emergencies). But the fact that I was a) a cutie-pie and b) awesome didn't stop high school from being a tragic train-wreck of a four years. Of course it wasn't all bad-- it rarely is, right? (My mom always likes to remind me that 'life is like train tracks-- parallel-- good happening along with the bad and vice versa.' She's a smart lady.) I had some awesome friends, some awesome teachers, an awesome voice that allowed me to compete in super-fun competitions, and by senior year i had so awesomely over-achieved academically that I only had to spend half-days at high school and spent the rest of my time taking community college classes and naps.

But oh how high school stifled my free little spirit... the cattiness stifled it, the idiotic dress code stifled it, and though I didn't know it at the time, the legalistic evangelical-osity stifled it. My sophomore year was particularly bad-- my Benedict Arnold of a former best friend stabbed me in the back big-time, and then decided to spread some fun rumors about me, one of which was that I stuffed my bra. Several things are wrong with this: first of all, what are we, TWELVE? I mean okay we were only FIFTEEN, but even for a 15-year-old, that's pretty low and lame; second of all, even then my self-esteem was too high to think I needed big fake boobs; and third of all, if I were gonna stuff my bra why in the hell would I stick with an A-cup? Don't you think I'd go for the gold and show up in like a C or a D? Honestly. (Not to mention that my former best friend herself consistently sported a tragic pointy, lumpy, Madonna-esque bra, so she had absolutely no room to talk about boob appearance. Whatever.)

But as if sophomore year hadn't crushed my spirit enough, for my junior year the administration decided to institute what was lovingly referred to as 'standardized dress.' AKA you have to look boring. If you have met me, you know that 'looking boring' is just not something I do. Or am even capable of. So I took their dress code as a challenge and decided to find fun ways around it, like showing up in the most interesting and awesome shoes ever, because that was the one and only thing not regulated by their dumb code. I even sat myself down and went through the handbook line by line, making a list of loopholes in the rules (my law professor would be so proud! Though at the moment he'd probably prefer me to be writing my LAW essay...). What was super-fun was when they started having to come up with new rules for the code JUST FOR ME. After I put up a fuss about not being able to wear my fabulous fur-trimmed jacket (THERE WAS NOTHING IN THE HANDBOOK ABOUT JACKETS), the next year you better believe they popped in a line stating that students couldn't wear 'outerwear' in the classroom. (Don't worry, that didn't stop me-- I got a note from my doctor saying I was exempt from that one due to poor circulation.)

I also used to get super-pissed when my Presbyterian Bible teachers (YEP that's right, we had BIBLE CLASS) would try to tell me that some babies were going to hell because they weren't 'predestined.' Um... WHAT? Call me crazy but I'm pretty sure God has more important things to worry about than condemning little babies to an eternity of torment-- and I don't even like babies that much. Now, in high school I was still pretty conservative (SHOCKER, I know), so a lot of the stuff that would really set my blood boiling now really didn't get to me then, which was probably for the best. But now imagine that you're not High School Jocelyn, you're Grad School Jocelyn, and you're being told you have to go BACK to high school... back to the cattiness, back to the place where people's highest aspirations are to get married at as young an age as legally possible, pop out some kids, and stay in Colorado forever, back to the place where you're not allowed to wear your awesome new fur coat and you're told your dog probably won't be with you in heaven (WHAT??).

Well, that is what happens to me ALL THE TIME in the hideous recurring dreams that I have about being forced back to high school. That's right- I have recurring dreams in which I am told that in fact my high school diploma is missing some credits and I've got to go BACK for a semester. Ohhh the inhumanity! Now, people often relive the most traumatic parts of their lives repeatedly in dreams, so I guess if my most traumatic event so far is high school, I can count my blessings. And I do. But that doesn't mean these dreams are pretty. THEY ARE NOT. I currently have two facial piercings (CRAZY I KNOW), a tattoo (not a stupid cliche' one), a fierce fashion sense that does NOT involve khaki pants and polo shirts, and a whole host of liberal views that would shock the socks off the administrators of my alma mater; NONE OF THESE THINGS are even remotely compatible with returning to the high school from whence I came. (Not to mention that it's in Colorado Springs which- in case you're confused by geography- is in the MIDDLE part of America, which in itself just scares the crap out of me.)

So when I have these dreams (nightmares?) of returning to high school, it's as if some big evil THING is trying to force my hard-won sense of self back into the mold I sprang from. (Though let's be honest, I never *really fit* the mold in the first place.) I'm far away from my family, I miss my American friends, and sometimes I think life would be a lot easier if I had jumped on board the Conservative Marriage and Family Wagon and settled down in some suburb in America... but then I shudder and realize that that is not even remotely what I want my life to be about. I love my life, I love where the path I've chosen has taken me, I fought long and hard to get here and I'm glad I did. It's taken a lot of time, a lot of thought, and a lot of therapy to get to where I am (maybe I'll write about that when I'm procrastinating my next essay ;)), but it's amazing to (sometimes) feel at peace with yourself, with God, with the world (okay maybe not the world- when you study human rights you KNOW the world is f***ed up). Not that I always feel all zen about myself- if we were always at peace with ourselves we would never grow and change, and unfortunately (or fortunately?) what I've come to realize is that change is necessary, and uncomfortableness is necessary for change; but in the (often too-short) lulls between the uncomfortable changes, I like what I see in myself. So what I just have to keep telling myself is, "Don't worry, Grad School Jocelyn. No one can ever make you go back to high school, or live in Colorado, or start thinking that little Bailey won't be there in heaven because of some made-up doctrine." Besides, if they tried, I would claim violation of my human rights and get my law professor on their ass :).

Human Rights Overload: my latest affliction

2009-12-07T04:26:00.000-08:00

What a week, ladies and gentlemen. What. A. Week. It began with me shutting myself up in my room all last weekend so I could focus on writing an essay on ritual shrine slavery in Ghana (upbeat, right?), followed up by attending the premier of a new film on human trafficking on Tuesday, followed on Wednesday by quite possibly the most frightening lecture EVER about climate change. By this point I was suffering from what I can only term as 'human rights overload.' Obviously, I knew when I decided to study human rights that a lot of it would be upsetting and obviously, the reason I decided to do it anyway was/is because I firmly believe that something needs to be done about these upsetting things. And usually, I can handle it; I can manage to take in the disturbing facts and statistics and practices without getting overwhelmed to the point of non-functionality. But after being inundated with horrific stories of trafficking and slavery and then being told that we're all basically going to be underwater in 50 years unless our carbon footprints are virtually eradicated, I passed overdrive and went into a sort of human rights coma. I skipped my Wednesday seminar, came home, and took a nice long nap. Then I got up, drank what could only have been the equivalent of an entire bottle of wine, and went back to sleep. I had high hopes for myself on Thursday and even set my alarm to wake me up in time for class. HA. I got up and realized I just didn't feel the need to show up for lecture- I needed a little more time in denial. So I lazed about and did nothing all morning and made myself generally useless to the world for a while, and then I pulled it together and went to my afternoon seminar and made myself resume functioning as a contributing member of society.

I have found that this is what I do- what I need to do- every so often. Sometimes something will happen, or several somethings will happen, or I'll come up against something that's bigger than my ability to process it, and I'll just shut down for a little while. I'll avoid human contact and I'll shut myself in my room and I'll sleep and sleep and sleep. I used to feel guilty about these intermittent hibernations- like I was somehow avoiding things, being unhealthy, taking the easy way out. But then I realized that it was my way of processing things... when my conscious mind can't handle something, it takes a break for a while so that my subconscious can deal with it. Then after a little while, I suck it up and deal with it on a conscious level, in whatever way it needs to be dealt with. This time around, that meant that I started being super-anal about recycling and sustainability and transportation (yes I know that my flight to the US for Christmas is going to basically use up my carbon allowance for the entire year, but I cycle everywhere to try to make up for it!), and that I went back and finished the book on trafficking that I'd had to take a break from when I was in my pseudo-coma. Because I know that sometimes I need to take a break from the human rights world I've chosen to immerse myself in, but I also know that I can't stay comatose forever... as Kasey Chambers says in 'Ignorance': "You can turn off the TV, and go about your day, but just cause you don't see it, it don't mean it's gone away."

some dibujos of some drawings...

2009-11-11T14:57:00.000-08:00

So, I'd had an idea for an art project percolating in my mind for about a month, but my problem is I'm always afraid that if I actually DO the art project it will turn out way less awesome than it was in my head. So what ends up happening is I think about art all the time, and I get awesome ideas for art pieces that I want to do, and I give myself a nice pat on the back because I am so creative and artsy, and then I never actually DO the art project... But I got really excited about this project in my head, so excited that I decided to risk it and actually attempt to make it, even though I'm sure it will evolve and change as it gets made (i.e. I will realize I'm not half as talented as I wish I was and will adjust my expectations accordingly). But anyway, the first step for me when making a Big-Ass Painting (and this is going to be a Big-Ass Painting) is sketching out the basic components of my piece... So glass of wine in hand (okay *bottle* of wine in hand-- that way if my end results end up sucking I'll be so trolleyed I won't care), I decided to spend the evening sketching... and here is the first stage of my project, nothing fancy just some charcoal sketches of what I'm going to incorporate into the painting.

An open letter...

2009-11-09T15:34:00.001-08:00

Dear World,

I have an amazing sense of humor (if I do say so myself). I am smart, and funny, and independent, and self-sufficient, and I can usually take things with a grain of salt. I am excellent at 'laughing it off' and finding the humor in whatever ridiculous situation I find myself in (and I seem to find myself in an excess of ridiculous situations). In fact, I often get myself into trouble (or at least into yet more awkward situations) for laughing at times others would deem inappropriate. I like this about myself- I like that I'm the girl that can laugh, that can make other people laugh, that has no problem laughing at herself.

But sometimes I'm sad, and I don't have the energy to temper that sadness with laughter. Sometimes, what I need is to cry on my way home, in public, and not have people judge me for it. Sometimes, what I need is to be disappointed and not have someone try to snap me out of it. Sometimes, I need to be upset and not have anyone think less of me for it.

I guess what I'm saying is that too often, the World makes us choose: are we going to be the upper or the downer, the one that makes everyone laugh or the one that brings everyone down; are we going to be happy or sad? And I guess what I'm asking is to not be forced to choose. Can't we just feel what we feel and not be labeled for it? We are obsessed with labels and categorizations- it makes us feel like we understand, like we are in control. But sometimes we don't understand, and we're not in control; sometimes it's not either/or; sometimes things fall into the space between. I am the girl who laughs and the girl who cries; please, World, don't make me choose.

Un peu d'art...

2009-11-04T10:21:00.001-08:00

Well I was trying to figure out how to organize my blog and make it all coherent and pretty with a separate section devoted to my artwork, but evidently blogger.com isn't fancy enough for that... or (and this is a very real possibility) I'm just too technologically inept to figure out how to do it. Either way, for now I'll just post a couple of my paintings here... These are both pieces I actually did while still back in Boston, but I haven't gotten around to photographing the ones (okay, ONE) I've done here yet... Apologies for the less-than-stellar picture quality (you can't really get a sense of the detail), but I'm still waiting to start making the big bucks so I can buy a fancy camera ;).

Every time I enter a UK bank...

2009-11-04T08:45:00.000-08:00

...I die a little on the inside. No but seriously, i do; I think by now I've probably had a good 6 months taken off my life by the tragically inept UK banking system. Not that the American banking system is flawless; au contraire, mes amis: I have in fact spent hours on the phone (using my precious international minutes) with my American bank, trying to get them to unlock the secret to transferring money between countries, to no avail (turns out there IS no secret- it simply can't be done. Thanks, TD Banknorth!). But the thing about my American bank is that it's hit-or-miss; sometimes I get hung up on by rude managers who don't know what the eff they're talking about, but SOMETIMES they are lovely and do lovely things for me like drawing up complicated visa letters without complaining. With my UK bank, however, I *always* know what to expect: lovely, polite ineptitude. They are NEVER rude, and would probably rather die than hang up on me, but dear GOD no one knows what is going on with my account. Today I made my third attempt in setting up a direct debit to pay my rent. Third time's the charm, right? WRONG. Basically, the first time had failed because I had filled out my OWN direct debit form, not the special bank form; the second time had failed because (unbeknownst to me, maybe because I never open my mail) evidently the signature on my direct debit form (the *special bank* form, thank you very much) didn't match the signature they had on file for my account. [Sidenote: when I went in to correct this, it turns out what they consider 'not matching' means there was a tiiiiiny little loop missing from one of my J's. REALLY??] So, when I had corrected this massive signature discrepancy, I assumed we were all set, right? WRONG. The lovely, polite bankeress informed me that she was putting some notes on my account requesting that the direct debit be re-authorized to begin in December, but she couldn't guarantee anything. AKA, good luck with this but you're probably going to have to come back in December with another, brand-new BANK-APPROVED form in order for your direct debit to ACTUALLY work.

Then it was on to the deposit side of things; I had (finally) received my security deposit check from my apartment in Boston and was excited to (finally) have some money to deposit into my UK account (because in case you were wondering, I still haven't received my funding... *sparklessss*!), but uh-oh! The check is an *American* check, which means it's in *American* dollars. Well, good thing they're a bank, right? I mean, surely they have the capabilities RIGHT THERE to convert dollars into pounds according to the current exchange rate, right?? WRONG. (Clearly, I was wrong about a LOT of things today. How unusual and disconcerting.) Turns out, it's actually going to take 4 to 6 business weeks (What the hell does that mean? Do the weekends not count as part of the week??) to process the check, convert it into pounds, and get the money into my account. (I would've offered to do the conversion myself, in my head, right then and there, but good old Martin the HSBC Teller didn't look like the type that would've found this amusing.)

Well, whew. Good thing I didn't have anything else to do today, like research for the 4,000-word advocacy case study that's looming over my head, or reading for tomorrow's debate in which apparently I'm representing UNICEF (I thought the military loved them some acronyms but they've got NOTHING on the NGO sector...). And the *truly* exciting thing is, I get to go back to my bank tomorrow to try and MANUALLY transfer my rent money since clearly direct debit is proving to be a wee bit too tricky for my university-educated self. Good thing drinking before 5 pm is acceptable here, because my bank closes at 4:30 and from now on I'm making sure I have a few alcoholic beverages in me before setting foot in that place. :)

My love letter to a city

2009-10-23T11:03:00.000-07:00

Dear London,

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways... (I'll get into how I *don't* love thee some other time, like when I've just climbed up and down 400 steps just to get in and out of the tube station, or when I've been waiting for the 168 bus for 15 minutes and then one comes and doesn't let anyone on because it is rush hour and there is no room, or when I've gone into 27 different stores looking for those little clear plastic hair-ties I like and STILL haven't found any)... but for now, let me tell you how I love you...

I love that I have gotten everywhere I need to go over the past week and haven't had to use a single mode of transportation other than walking. I love that I can walk ten minutes down my street and find an H&M, American Apparel, and (just discovered) a Whole Foods (even though I cannot currently afford to actually GO to any of those places). I love that on the same street as Gap and Baby Gap, there are also about 14 different tattoo and piercing parlors. I love that you have stores that are tights/leggings boutiques SLASH piercing parlors. I love that I can walk into Camden Market sporting two facial piercings and a tattoo and be one of the most conservative/mainstream-looking people there. I love that people tell me they like my accent, even though I don't have an accent and clearly THEY are all the ones with accents. I love that you have universal health care. In fact, I love it so much I almost feel as though I should injure myself just so I can feel I've taken full advantage of the system (I said *almost*). I love that I can walk home at night from a mile and a half away and not feel as though I am in imminent danger of getting shanked. I love that I can buy wine in pretty much every store I go into. I love that you have washing machines in pretty much every flat. I love that everything is a tiny and adorable version of itself (just like me!)- tiny fridges, tiny boxes of juice, tiny strawberries, TINY BOTTLES OF WINE (they could fit in my purse... not that I've tried...), tiny cups of tea with tiny little hats and jackets to go with (to the uninitiated, hats and jackets are what I call lids and sleeves). And let's not forget clothes! I have finally landed in a country where they make tiny and adorable clothes. A.k.a. clothes that fit me. THANK YOU LONDON.

Oh London, so many things I love about you... please remind me of all of these when next I have to walk a mile home in the driving rain, or when I decide to ride the tube during rush hour and end up with my face smashed into someone's deodorant-less armpit, or when I have to write an 8,000-word essay on international law (though that's less to do with you as a city and more to do with me as a heroic human-rights-type person- YOU'RE WELCOME, international community)...

Anyway London, thank you for being your fabulous self so that I can be my fabulous self without getting looked at funny.

XOXO,
Joce

In Which I Digress from My Usual Hilarity...

2009-10-13T08:31:00.000-07:00

Friends and lovers and other people who read my blog (all two of you)... deepest apologies for my lack of bloggage in the last week... or two... turns out that moving house/starting classes/developing an addiction to various television series (*cough* trueblood *cough*) is in fact rather counter-productive to producing blog posts. Anyway, after serious deliberation (and by deliberation I mean I thought about it for a few minutes during a particularly uninteresting lecture and maybe a few times right before falling asleep at night), I have decided to include the following post which digresses a bit from my usual hilarity and addresses the more emotional side of the nomadic lifestyle, and more specifically, my specific brand of nomadic lifestyle, which I've just dubbed Compulsive Nomadry (seriously, just dubbed- I made it up as I was typing it). Anyway, it probably won't provide as many laughs as normal, but for anyone who's ever moved continents, or been a military brat, or had feelings, it might ring a bell...

The other night I finally-- FINALLY-- had the good cry that I'd been needing for weeks. Some people dread crying and try to hold it in no matter what and think for some bizarre reason that doing so will somehow make things better. I do not understand those people. For me, it's like I know I need to have a good epic cry every so often in order to feel whole and healthy, and if I haven't had one for a while then I sort of just know I'm in for one at any given time and I might as well embrace it. Not that I cry about nothing, or that these episodes aren't genuinely emotionally taxing; on the contrary, I am usually crying about something (and/or everything) quite meaningful to me, and the effect is incredibly draining. But in its own weird way, it's also renewing and rejuvenating. It's like all this emotion has built up inside of me and is finally being released and making room for new experiences and emotions. It's almost like, "Okay, well clearly that's what I was feeling, and now I've processed it, and let it out, and I can move on."

For what seemed like age before, during, and after my move, I was feeling all these conflicting emotions but I didn't really have time or energy to process any of it. Yes I had little bursts of sad here and there where I'd shed a few tears (or whine to my friends about how I was afraid they weren't going to miss me-- I have some [inordinate] abandonment issues, but whatever), but it wasn't until I was finally in London, trying to create a new life and some semblance of normalcy, that I finally had time to really feel what I needed to feel. I am proud and happy to say that this breakdown slash breakthrough did not occur in a public place as it so often does (restaurants and bars seem to be a favorite locale...), but in fact took place one insomniac night while my body was still trying to adjust to the time difference while also processing the (potentially unhealthy) amount of caffeinated painkillers I had ingested earlier that day. I lay in bed, thinking, not sleeping, and trying to coax my fragile emotions out of their hiding place, and sure enough, eventually, there it was-- first just a little lone tear but soon enough a whole watershed. I finally cried about everything I left behind-- my beautiful friends/family and my beautiful church and the beautiful familiarity of a city I'd lived in for two years (even if it did get so cold in the winter that the sidewalks were permanently frozen over and I wished for a team of sled dogs just to avoid slipping and falling every time I set foot outside), not to mention a culture I (usually, sometimes) understood; and I cried about all the things that this move across the pond symbolized: the fact that I didn't really belong in any particular place, and that I would probably never lead a typical life and probably wouldn't be happy living a typical life; and I cried for all the things I would probably never have-- like a permanent residence and a picket fence out front and stability and what most people would consider normalcy.

Because you see, while other people kept reminding me that my program was only a year long, that I could come back after that, I knew there was no 'going back.' Not that I was forever ruling out the possibility of living back in the US, or even in Boston, but I knew that this move across the ocean was my next step on a path that wouldn't lead me 'back' anywhere. And though this is the life I have chosen for myself (because I promised myself years ago that I would never move again unless it was my decision and something that I wanted), that doesn't keep me from sometimes wishing that I could be happy choosing something a little easier, a little more traditional, a little more settled. But for me, that's what it would be: settling. And so I allow myself to cry, and to be sad that I don't have and might never have a typical life; and to slowly move toward the acknowledgment and acceptance of the fact that I will probably always, in the back or front of my mind, be missing someone or someplace; and then I empty myself out and I make room for the new experiences I am about to have and for all the un-normal things I will
eventually do, and I am at peace with myself and my decisions until the time comes for my next big cry and for the process of renewal and acceptance to begin again.

Walking that thin line between love and hate...

2009-10-01T09:47:00.000-07:00

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.

English food, good? Quoi??

2009-09-22T14:18:00.000-07:00

Today I finally had good- nay, fantastic- food in London. That's not to say that everything I'd eaten til now had been abjectly disgusting, but none of it had been amazing (probably due to the fact that Britons are obsessed with meat and it's nearly impossible to find a decent selection of pescatarian/vegetarian tasties). I mean let's face it, London: you do a lot of things well, but food isn't exactly one of them (unless you are one of the few who adore various odd organs of sheep, cow, etc). Of course, the food I had today wasn't exactly native British cuisine (pretty sure hummus didn't originate anywhere near the fair Isles), but still- it was food, it was good, and it was in the UK. So that's got to count for something.

I happened upon the fabulous 'Hummus Bros' today on my way back from a flat-viewing (more on that later), when I was in the lovely first stages of food/water/sodium (according to my neurologist)-deprivation which for me involves short periods of blacking out whilst still remaining lucid and being only just able to remain upright. No big deal. Anyway, when this happens I know it's time to stop for a bit of a snackie. So I popped into the first place I found that looked remotely affordable, and it happened to be my NEW FAVORITE, Hummos Bros. I ate alone and didn't even feel like a loser, that's how good it was. I was too busy thinking about how DAMN GOOD the hummus was to worry if anyone was thinking, 'Wow, why is that wee American girl sitting all by herself with nary a book or magazine to distract her?" (Though to stave off any excessive staring I did text the lovely Stephen during my meal, just so everyone would know I *did* actually have friends.)

Anyway, get this-- this place is actually a HUMMUS BAR. Aka, you order hummus as a base and then add in stuff to go in the middle of the plate-- chickpeas, chicken, salad, WHATEVER. And of course it comes with pita bread. What I didn't know when I ordered was that this is the BEST PITA BREAD EVER- yes, better than the stuff I had in Morocco- AND, that beverages are always half-price if you're student (which in case you've been living under a rock, I AM). So all that to say, Hummus Bros is my new fave and if you come visit me here in London (which you should), I will probably drag you there and you will be obligated to say that you love it.

Because not only do they have amazing, cheap food suitable for vegetarians, but it also provided me with a much-needed link to home (whatever that even means to someone who grew up in about twenty hundred different places). Yes, I know I'm not Middle Eastern (though let's face it- loads of people I come across think I am. Okay, two people I've come across think I am.)... but hummus (and maybe having a good food experience in general) reminds me of things that are familiar to me. When I sat down in Hummus Bros and tasted the best hummus I've had in a LONG-ASS TIME, it reminded me of the amazing hummus I had (nearly every day, because our cafeteria food sucked some serious patootie) when I was in Morocco- which just happens to be the same place I made some of the most amazing friends ever. And when the dear little waiter came over and tried to get me to pour weird garlic-lemon sauce all over my already-perfect dish, it reminded me of how my lovely Stephen made the mistake of buying flavored hummus for our Bible study group and I bitched at him because everyone KNOWS that I think flavored things are unnatural, and then next time he came prepared with Original flavor hummus with nothing weird and extra added.

So thank you, Hummus Bros, for a) being awesome AND cheap, and b) giving me a strangely tangible link to some of my favorite people and memories. I'll be back soon :).

Waste not, want not!

2009-09-21T06:07:00.000-07:00

Apparently, despite our horrible reputation as the biggest wastrels on the planet, Americans are actually quite thrifty. And British people, as it turns out, are not. (Not that I am making sweeping generalizations here at all.) The most recent incident that proves this hypothesis took place in a nice little pub in the London borough of Chiswick:

After ordering risotto [possibly the only vegetarian option on the menu-- did I mention that British people are also decidedly in love with meat?? There was, I swear, a 'meat plate' on the menu, and every dish seemed to feel the need to contain not one but TWO OR MORE types of meat, e.g. 'chicken and ham pie'. Wtf??], I was unable to finish the entire portion. Being like any normal American, and- I thought- normal PERSON, I of course asked for the remainder to be boxed up to go. After being looked at like I had sprung a second, third, and fourth head, I was told that unfortunately they were unable to accommodate such a [bizarre] request. (The 'bizarre' was added in by me- but you could tell from the gentleman's face that he was thinking it.) But, being American, I of course decided not to give up (how do you think we won the Revolutionary War??). So I asked for some foil. "I'll see what I can do... Just for you, love," was the gentleman's response. (Even though he thought I was weird he still called me 'love'- how cute.)

Well, after waiting, five, ten, nay, fifteen minutes for my foil, I pretty much had given up on outside help, so I took matters into my own hands. I looked around the table for something suitable and disposable in which to store leftover risotto and came up empty-handed. Then one of my friends conveniently told me that the glasses we were drinking out of come free to restaurants from the drink company (thank you, Pimm's!). By now you've probably guessed what I did, but if not, I will tell you. With my guilt over stealing assuaged by the fact that the glasses were FREE, I surreptitiously and expertly shoved my risotto into my empty water glass, covered it with a napkin, sealed the napkin with a hairband et voila! My very own (reusable, eco-friendly) doggie bag. If you're wondering how I surreptitiously and expertly smuggled my doggie bag out of the pub, I will tell you that too: in my friend's wee Accessorize bag, of course! Granted, about five minutes later my dear waiter came back with an entire ream of foil and I had to pretend that I'd already consumed the remaining risotto whilst in fact stashing it under the table, but still- a fairly genius improvisation, no? You're welcome, America, for restoring your name as a land of innovation, and you're welcome Britain for transplanting my thrifty genius to your shores.

Pictures of my doggie-bag adventure to come... Time to go eat my leftover risotto!

Apartment-hunting... oops i mean flat-hunting...

2009-09-21T05:25:00.000-07:00

Flat-hunting in London is a form of art. It involves timing, street-smarts, and fooling complete strangers into thinking you're normal just long enough that they agree to let you a room, at which point you can begin to show your true colors (though I recommend waiting to do this until all your things have been moved in-- it makes it much more difficult for them to surreptitiously remove you if they've got to lift your 80-pound suitcase).

But first things first-- before even meeting your potential future flatmates, you've got to become expert at spotting dodgy ads. Craigslist and Gumtree will tell you not to make any transactions involving Western Union lest your money end up funding gun-runners in Outer Mongolia and the like, but I will tell you it's much more complicated than that. You've got to learn to spot the Socially Awkward lot, the Just Want Some Contact with Girls lot, the Forget to Wash a Dish and We'll Evict You lot, and any and all lots that could be fronts for prostitution rings. Not to mention learning how to spot key words that are dead giveaways to a crap living situation. For example: "Roomshare" means you will likely be sharing a room-- nay, a bed-- with anywhere from one to three persons of assorted gender, any and all of whom may at some point try to get in your pants. "Cozy" means you will likely be inhabiting a space roughly the size of a postage stamp. "Central" can mean anywhere from a five to sixty-five minute commute to the center of the city where you wish to live/work/etc. And I will tell you this for free, anyplace in London that unconditionally offers you 'pet-friendly' accomodations will likely take your money, run, then come back for your shoes, socks, and trousers, and run again.

Thankfully I managed to learn most of these things without actually ever having to share a bed with three assorted people or getting my shoes taken (Mama didn't raise no fool)... Though I shouldn't speak too soon-- I have yet to actually secure a room in a flat, and am currently waiting for a call from someone whose flat I viewed yesterday and would very much like to occupy. It feels a bit like being that desperate girl who sits by her phone all day hoping her mediocre date from last night will call... not that I would know ;).