Monster Adventure!

Today marked the first day of classes in London, and though it was more of an intro day than a learning day, I am delighted to add a new quote to my "Awesome Shit Teachers Have Said Collection." My London History professor told us she was a bit left wing and didn't make a secret of it and gave us a bit of proof when she said this: "We'll go from the Romans up to Mrs. Thatcher, so not exactly progress but change."

In other news, I made my first visit to the British Museum, which is only a block or two from my flat. While I could spend many entries writing about all the crazy shit the British have stolen from other cultures over the years, I'll save that for a later visit. The museum itself is free, which I guess makes up for how expensive everything else is. Since it's close and costs nothing, I could go there all the time, so you can likely look forward to posts about penisless Grecian statues. Oh, the excitement!

But for now, I'll focus on a favorite adventure I have had so far. It begins, as so many things do, with my slightly strange personal fashion decisions.

As my mother is a seamstress, I often pester her to make me awesome clothes, some of which normal people might wear, but most of which the general public is not cool enough to pull off. I have dinosaur pajamas, my own superhero cape, and two monster hats. The hats are the most important for this particular adventure.

After yet another supermarket visit, I was traveling down what I believe to be Tottenham Court Road (though my sense of geography is still not refined enough to be sure) when I happened upon some stilt walkers. It was cool out so I had put on my newest home-sewn masterpiece: a black fleece hat with the eyes, ears, and arms of a monster. The man on stilts teetered in my direction.

"I don't mean to alarm you, but you've got some sort of a creature on the top of your head. It looks pretty dangerous, too."

I looked up at the stilt man towering above and laughed. "Yes, he has fangs," I answered.

"How's your shopping going then?" he asked as his female stilt walking companion approached. The pair peered into my grocery bags, complimented my yogurt selection, and noted that I was ready to do some scrubbing with my new sponges. We chatted for a few more minutes until one of the stilt walkers asked me if I was German.

"Uh, no," I answered, "I'm Swiss actually."

"But you must be from the German part."

"Yeah..." I answered because my family is, though I've spent only about two weeks there in the last ten years of my life. It's easier just to say I'm all Swiss rather than trying to explain my awkward half duel citizenship, especially to people who are several feet taller than me thanks to the wooden pegs in their pant legs.

One of the companions of the stilt walkers told me she had friends in Basel and if I ever happened to meet them, I should give them a hello from her. I agreed and made my way down the street, wondering where they had picked up the idea that I was German. Perhaps Germans (or Swiss from the German part of Switzerland) often purchase yogurt and sponges. Or perhaps I have acquired a German accent since leaving New England. Or maybe speakers of German often have impressive monster hats. It remains a mystery.