Public Service Announcement

Attention all Washingtonians and/or human beings. We have visual evidence that men within the city limits are abandoning all sense of dignity, also more commonly known as the "two button rule."  There have been confirmed sightings of up to four buttons sans buttoning.  These are record breaking statistics, and citizens fear the repercussions:

"A man bumped into me on the Metro today," shared one traumatized United States Government employee, "and that wouldn't have been so bad if his chest hair hadn't brushed my arm. My whole arm."

Chest hair out willy-nilly on public transportation?  Is this the end of the two button rule as we know it?

"It's really hot," said one local, who, coincidentally had left three of his buttons undone. "Besides, it's fine - I 'manscape,' like, I shave my chest all the time ... for the ladies, obviously."

Well, this is one reporter who will admit to vomiting a little in her mouth in public.  With this staggering evidence that complete and total anarchy, and possibly nudity, commuters must remain vigilant.  Be aware of men who sweat profusely or constantly check to see if their chest hair is still there, even combing it at times. 

Remember, there is only one man who is allowed to break the two button rule ...

... And he's fictional!!!

So What Happens Now?

I can sum up exactly 85.7% of the conversations that I've had in the last three weeks right here, right now:

Person I Haven't Seen Or Heard From In Months: "OHMYGAHD! It's YOU! How was England?"
Moi: "It was so great, I really miss .."
P.I.H.S.O.H.F.I.M.: "Awww, yeah, I bet you do! Was it great? Aw, I bet it was so great!"
Moi: (Distracted by the montage of beautiful Oxford images in my head) "Yes ..Yes, it was .. (cue single tear).  But how have you been! Tell me everything!"
P.I.H.S.O.H.F.I.M.: "Ha! Same old, same old.  Nothing to tell, really! You know, I went to Oxford once, I think.  Is that where Shakespeare was born?"
Moi: "No, but it's not far from there! It's a funny story; I went to Stratford-Upon-Avon, and there was this cow .."
P.I.H.S.O.H.F.I.M.: "Oh! Yes. Okay, I know what you're talking about. That reminds me of when I studied for a week in Germany."
Moi: "Oh. That's .. That's cool. So, how was your semester here?"
P.I.H.S.O.H.F.I.M.: "Wait, did you go to the Royal Wedding?"

Womp.

The most difficult thing about coming home is realizing that my journey has been a pretty private one.  Nobody wants to hear about the quadrillion pages I read or the half a quadrillion pages I wrote.  They want deets on what Harry smells like and if the food is really that bad.  Unfortunately, since I only looked at Buckingham Palace and didn't break in, and mostly lived the life of a poor college student who shops at the marked down section of Tesco, I don't have the answers people want!

This isn't a bad thing.

It's the "OMG HOW WAS YOUR SUMMER EVEN THOUGH I DON'T CARE" phenomenon, just a few months early.  I admit, sometimes, I feel very thirteen-year-old-misunderstood because I can't express the strange dichotomy of loving home but missing where/who/what/when/was at Oxford.  It wasn't the food or the royals that shaped my time there (shocking, but true) -- it was missing a bus in London, counting out a pound in ten pence coins to buy tea at Coffee Republic, chatting with Paul as he checked my bags for water, explosives, and goats on my way into the Bod, and letting myself sleep from 4:00 am to 6:00 am before writing the last three pages of my paper, which, forty-eight hours prior, seemed completely impossible to complete.

But what about the people who have been here? I spend a lot of time trying to piece together what I've missed, plus trying to figure out what is actually important.  Friends have graduated, moved, stressed, searched, danced, drank, mingled, studied, written, slept, ran, loved, cried, discovered, and a million other things -- and it's amazing what matters.  Break ups that involved weeks of sobbing, yelling, and alcohol have been explained to me in a few, brief, non-chalant sentences.  Huge life decisions, too, like where to live or pursue work: "I dunno, I just decided it was best."

Oh!

Like I said, it's not a bad thing.  Not at all.  Some people (and it's usually the same three people that you always expect) are just easy -- even after months, years, trips to the moon, whatever, you can spend a lunch with them and feel the odd, wonderful sensation that you fit right back into their lives, but that they understand that trips to the moon might change you, or at least make you feel like an alien (slightly).

And that's worth everything.

So many of my classmates studied abroad this semester as well, and it's weird! Secretly, I think that each of us holds to the idea that our experience was hands down the best and that nothing can compare.  But, isn't that the truth?  It was the best for each of us as individuals!  Just like each day is different for each person -- we choose to be ourselves because that's the best we can do.

I don't think going abroad the second semester of Junior year is just about timing your credits correctly.  I think it falls perfectly at the line between having a thousand friends who know every detail of your personal life and having a few good friends who care (while the other thousand remain very positive background noise).  From now on, I suppose life will be more work, more of me talking to myself from nine to five and saying, "Just fine," when someone asks how my day is going.  It's not a bad thing, it's just .. the next thing.  

Here ends my cathartic post.  It was necessary to start writing again, even if no one is reading.  I would love to hear about other people's experience adjusting to home or school or to a new place or old place, if you have the time.  If not, remember that it's okay to flip through pictures and feel strange.  We're all on a trip (of the journey variety, not of the drug kind, unless that's your style, in which case all power to you), and we're all going somewhere.

It's a good thing.

The Love Affair

During our Orientation, my programme (yes, I am pretentious enough to spell it the British way) director said something that made me incredibly nervous.  "You will all get to know Oxford," he said, " but only about a third of you will truly come to love it."

That's some serious pressure.

My stomach started to get twisty whenever someone mentioned a coffee shop or street name that I didn't know, or when people seemed to know their way around better than I did.  They were the one third.  They were the ones having a love affair with this city, not me.

Then I survived the first week. Classes started, and knowing my way around was completely different than knowing someone else's way around.  The relationship I had with Oxford was private and special.

I fell fast.

There were long, beautiful nights .. in the library.
I have distinct but, as of now, indescribable moments of bliss perched at my bedroom window at four in the morning, looking out at the dark, starry sky wondering how much longer it would take to add a thousand more words to my essay.  Oxford actually wasn't much of a help then, but I tried not to let it affect our time together too much.

The city always made up for the nightly identity crisis that came with having to defend my crap work.  There were long walks by the Thames, there was wine that came from the tap at Four Candles.  There were swans, and daily free fudge samples at that green store on Broad Street.  There were sunsets and many, many sunrises.  There were days when I wanted to stay in bed all day but Oxford wouldn't let me. I might just appreciate that the most.  Not a second wasted.

The Radcliffe Camera trying to make up for my essay woes on Valentine's Day.

 
Now Oxford is something different.  My classes have been over for a week and the victory high has worn off.  Most of the students are off on their break, and the streets are full of tourists - so. many. tourists. I don't mind most of the time - they think that the city really is mine and ask me to take picture or give directions.  Oxford and I secretly exchange high fives because we know I know my way around just fine.

But in a way we've drifted.  I think the idea of soon being thousands of miles away from each other has grown into one of those awkward "elephants in the room," which is really just an excuse for being extra silent at dinner or reluctant to share good news about the future.  It took me weeks to let Oxford know I booked my ticket to Italy.  I should have known it would be happy for me.

Because that's what love is, right?

We are parting in a few days, but I will be less heartbroken than I thought I would be.  (As usual) it's not these last slow days in "my" bed or at "my favorite coffee shop" that matter.  It was the beginning. It was the middle. It was a love affair.

And I will never forget it.

Photo Essay Part Two: The Back of Maggie's Head Goes to Edinburgh

Before I present to you the further adventures of The Back (and Lovely Front) of Maggie's Head, I feel like I should make some comments on the ins and outs of traveling as a poor college student.  Staying in Dublin was my first hostel experience.  All I knew about hostels was what I had seen in the trailer for the movie made in 2005. Not what I would call encouraging.  But the hostel was really nice! Hardly any bloodstains (I kid). I never went to summer camp, but it was how I imagine living in the all girls cabin would be: ten bunk beds, girly things EVERYWHERE, lots of high-pitched gab (some of it in German), and some super embarrassing snoring coming from the bunk under me.  Whenever we came into the common space downstairs, there was always something to see: the kids from California getting drunk on Coca-Cola and wine (noted), the dude with "that" hat awkwardly playing bad chords on a guitar, the couple who only whispered in Spanish, and all of the nice people at the front desk that we made sure to be friends with.  The free breakfast was the perfect time for conflict to arise (two toasters for about 39397 people), but from what I gather, people aren't as horrible as they seem.

By the time we got to Zuzu's in Edinburgh, however, I was glad to be in a normal bed (sans the snoring).  Maggie and I went into Official Vacation Mode.  We ate, we read magazines, we watched Titanic. It was glorious.

P.S. Zuzu goes to the University of Edinburgh and is a fierce historian/my oldest friend. And by oldest, I mean she knew me when I had to wear a kilt and too-big sweater vest on a regular basis, not that she is 46.

Zuzu lives right next door to a giant history museum.  Inside, we found signs encouraging us to dress up like Romans did in ancient times.  Then Maggie saw this tag: "For 12 years and Up" .. Too late!

As you can see, Zuzu is really intense when it comes to historical things like lifesize Egyptian robots.

She taught us her ways, and Maggie caught on fast.

I didn't.

The Museum of Art on our first, rainy, freezing day.

The Back of Maggie's Head checks out the monument thing (which was a great landmark to find H&M).

See? This is right outside H&M. I am the best tourguide ever.

The view from the North Bridge on a rainy evening. The roof below is a giant under ground mall, if memory serves.

Me 'n' my travel buddy on le bridge.

Action shot of a giant group of Spanish guys that kept taking pictures of themselves with store fronts.  One of them is wearing a giant, pink sparkly bow - must've lost a bet.

Maggie and Zuzu standing with a famous statue of Bobby, a dog who was homeless after his grave-digging master died. Or something. They sell full biographies of his life in many of the touristy shops and, of course, Barnes & Noble. He's a pretty big deal for doing absolutely nothing but being a Scottish dog.

The Elephant House, which is where J.K. Rowling is famed for writing her first two books, looked particularly normal until we check out the bathrooms.

This is incredible.

It says, "Repairo!"

Right above the toilet. Classic.

Fans have written all kinds of things on the walls and ceiling.

Dedication.

"I'm studying to be a teacher and I want to ROCK as hard as Dumbledore." Good luck with that beard-growing, young grasshopper.

I couldn't agree more!

"Not my daughter you bitch!" Oh Molly, you scoundrel.

The sign-ups for The Order of the Pheonix. And yes, our names are now on it.

The list for Dumbledore's Army doubles over itself, and again, yes our names are now on it!

"Dobby R.I.P." "Moldy Voldy," and "I peed here!" .. All relevant.

The Elephant House (the restaurant, not the bathrooms) remains a tribute to elephants and their majestic beauty and all that. They put up people's drawings of elephants, so I did my own spin on things ..

Elephant + House = Elephant House?

My beloveds on the Royal Mile, which is the street that connects The Palace and The Castle, neither of which are dance clubs.

The Back of Maggie's Head checks out some of the foilage at The Castle.

Surprise! Princess Anne was leaving The Castle right as we were arriving! Guess we'll have to have a tea to discuss the latest episode of Glee later.

Gorgeous view from The Castle.

My darling Zuzu being an excellent tour guide and showing us why the city is called "The City of Spires."

We are getting so good at posing together.

Legend has it that if students currently enrolled at the University of Edinburgh cross into the grounds of The Castle, they will fail out of school. We didn't want to take any risks, but Zuzu was still pretty upset about it.

A statue of David Hume overlooking the street across from St. Giles Cathedral.

The Back of Maggie's Head checks out Parliament: the ugliest building of all time.

Homey?

Maggie decides to drop out of school and follow her real dream of becoming a British guard.

Since The Palace had royal visitors, we weren't allowed to take a tour.  But they did give us free shortbread crowns, which I think was a pretty decent trade-off.

I fit right in.

The Palace from the gates where all the poor people gather begging for jewels.

Maggie, Zuzu, Parliament, and the Craigs. One big happy Scottish family!

FYI: This is the morning of St. Patrick's Day, and this is the kind of green I like.

The Back of Zuzu's Head makes a cameo on our way to the "mountains."

As we climbed higher, we debated different methods of breaking into The Palace.

The Back of Maggie's Head on our descent in Holyrood Park. Not to be confused with Hollywood - it's way more glamorous.

I am so glad Princess Anne was at The Palace that day.

Crappy Roman architecture. Sort of.  I just like the trees around it.

"Beware of Falling Rocks"

Of all the things to carve into a mountain .. "Nacho."

I think the lack of oxygen started getting to them.

Maggie and some guy I don't know.

Zuzu's throne .. Just testing it out before she takes over the world.

Wild life.

This is why I don't normally frolick around in nature like this - it gets me all kooky.

The Back of Maggie's Head is on the top of a mountain.

The only problem with climbing up a mountain is getting back down.

Sigh. Such a great city.