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
Friday, 23 October 2009
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
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.
"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.
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