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

...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

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...

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...

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...

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...

...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

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...

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...

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??

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!

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...

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 ;).