Do You by Any Chance Work in Finance?

Tonight, I put on my finest monkey suit and set off for the Cape, a pub over in the City of London, a.k.a. the financial district. Why would I do that to myself? Because it wouldn't be a Colgate study group without the requisite networking outlet, now would it? Colgate has a hard-on for students glad handing alums so the gravy train of Colgate money can keep on rolling, after all.

Name tag securely in place, I was primed for my own personal mission: staking out a husband. I had been warned that the event would be over populated by "hedge fund boys," and as I have oft been told that there is no shame in marrying for money, I was eager to meet these financial wizards and slip my hand in their pockets filled with gold. That, and as a person who has only recently begun consuming alcohol, I decided filling up on a deep sense of irony rather than beer was the only suitable way to stomach encounters with that many smug, rich assholes.

I arrived with a cluster of other study group students, and we stumbled awkwardly towards the pockets of alumni near the bar. Slowly, students began to break off and talk to the alumni. I didn't want to. For all my husband hunting, I just wanted to duck my head rather than introduce myself, confess to being an English major, and find out, that yes, the finely dressed person in front of me did have a lucrative career screwing over the rest of us. But with one or two other students beside me, I approached my first alum: Samantha, who worked on the New York Stock Exchange and had just moved to London a week ago. She was only a few years older than me, but already unrelatable. As she didn't appear to be a lesbian, she also was not the best choice for my future spouse.

Then, as I was pouring myself a glass of water, I got introduced to Tom. Rather than working in finance himself, Tom helped people who were interested in finding a career in finance transition into that field. Tom was older, a little on the chubby side, and very interested in my opinion of whether or not Colgate still felt like a boys club. Not really, I told him, keeping back the fact that it still often felt very much like a country club. We chatted for a while, until I only had ice and half of a sad lemon ring left in my glass. They had started to put some food out, and Tom said he hadn't meant to monopolize my time. So we went over to the food table and I snuck away.

It was a while before I met my future husband, Patrick. Patrick, the investment banker. Patrick, the guy who works for Goldman Sachs. Patrick, the epitome of everything I have never looked for in a man. Patrick hung around and chatted with a few of us for quite a while. Each time a new student approached, Patrick again and again was forced to acknowledge that he was, in fact, an investment banker.

"It's a bit like saying that you're a pedophile these days," he said.

My future husband works next door to St. Paul's cathedral, which also happens to be where the Occupy London camp is set up. The first week here, some friends and I had wandered by the Occupy camp. In fact, I have a copy of The Occupied Times somewhere in my flat. I didn't tell Patrick that. I know enough about charming men into letting me be their trophy wife not to mention my connections to their archenemies.

Patrick, genial Goldman Sachs employee that he is, was interested in our career goals. When I told him I was interested in being a comedy writer, (I know, not the best line to convince the guy to take me as his wife) his face morphed into one of mingled shock and amazement.

"Are you funny? Can you be funny on demand?"

"Uhhh, sorry," I replied. "I'm only funny on Tuesdays."

He pity laughed. "That was pretty funny." He didn't really think so.

Another student approached the group and asked Patrick what he did.

"I'm an investment banker." He paused and watched what I can only assume was yet another face falling in dismay. "Yeah, sorry."

"Do you always have to apologize to people when you tell them what you do now?" I asked.

"Yeah. Well, only to people who don't work in finance," he said.

Shortly thereafter Patrick bought a bottle of wine and offered some to us, a nice gesture perhaps or an indication that yes, he was, in fact, every ounce the investment banker he told us he was. As he poured a few glasses for some of the other students, the wine bottle seemed to gurgle, "He is rich. Buying wine for English majors... he pities you and your future careers in waitressing."

The evening whiled away, until we were finally free to button up our coats and venture back into the streets of London where the snow had again begun to fall. While the few alumni left at the pub went off to secure their cabs, I'm sure, I headed to the tube to catch a train back to the flat, curl up, and write "Mrs. Patrick, Class of '95" all over the pages of my English class notebooks.

"Don't Be a Twat"

On Saturday my study group had a field trip up to Bath. As with all the other field trips, it was optional but free. Being what I choose to call frugal but what others may choose to call cheap, I plan to go on most of them. By 9 Saturday morning, a handful of my classmates and I had gathered by platform 3 at Paddington Station, waiting for our professor to arrive.

Once in Bath, (which I keep wanting to leave uncapitalized, because most of my baths are not proper - proper nouns, that is) we wandered around and made our way to Sally Lunn's. Apparently one must have a Sally Lunn bun while in Bath. Perhaps because it rhymes?

I had the most delicious trencher, which is also apparently an old school way to eat. It's a bread plate rather than a bread bowl, in this case the bread being a Sally Lunn bun. I also can't think of the word bun without thinking of buns as butts. It made the meal vaguely more awkward, if only in my head. It also explains why the mug my parents have with a bear and a muffin tray that says "Love my buns!" is so unsettling to me.

After lunch we went to the Roman Baths. They had a self guided audio tour with several different listening options. My professor encouraged us to pick up the audio guides, since parts of the tour we could opt to have Bill Bryson's commentary during instead of some random expert. Bill Bryson was not as funny on the audio tour as he was in print, so I often opted for the kids audio tour which featured several different characters. In the caldarium, I got treated to a slave's explanation of how they needed to have different rooms for the men and women because coed nudity was frowned upon. The slave's commentary concluded with her telling me she had to go because her mistress was ready to have her armpits plucked. This was followed by a half minuted of gasps, ouches, and the occasional scream.

While we were visiting the baths, the snow that had been threatening to fall all morning, finally started to tumble towards us. The square stones of the street outside became slick with slush, and, gentleman that I am, I offered an arm to one of my friends whose boots had smooth soles. We slipped the way up the hill to Royal Crescent, which is where the pompous rich people lived in the 1800s. I resisted the temptation to say, "Hurumph, hurumph!" while we walked through the rooms of their old ass stuff.

After the Royal Crescent a few of us went swimming in the spa. I am not much of a spa goer, by which I mean I've never been to one before. My friends and I made our way up to the roof top pool for a swim, where we ran through the falling snow in our swim suits and clambered quickly into the water. From the roof, we could see the sky turning red at sunset and the top of the illuminated abbey nearby as snow collected in our hair.

On the train journey back, we were in a car with a group of drunks. Sitting with my friend Amy, I took great pleasure in trying to imitate them - quietly, of course. A favorite quote from the group? "He's been looking for a job since the industrial revolution!" I am not sure what being able to make historical references while drunk says about a person, but here we are. Luckily, we went largely unnoticed by the drunks until I stood up with my green monster hood on and was mistaken for Kermit.

"Hey, it's Kermit!"

"Kermit? Where's Kermit?"

"Behind you!"

"I don't see him!"

"Behind you! Kermit's behind you!"

"Hey, hey! Kermit come back. Where is he?"

I stayed tucked behind my seat, head bent to Amy, not wanting to interact with the drunks that had made a pair of bobbies board the train a few stations back. Why was it that these drunks had not taken their own shouted advice to each other from before? Don't be a twat.

Dumbledore Was Right

It's confession time, which I suppose is fitting since I visited Westminster Abbey on Wednesday. Mine is not the juiciest confession and certainly isn't the kind of confession that I used to be guilted into making by the Catholic church, but here we are: I love socks. It's one of my many foot related oddities.

I haven't always had such a deep affection for socks. My love of socks started in earnest during my senior year of high school - though I did have an affectionate relationship with a sock puppet named Abner about four years earlier. But my senior year of high school I decided that I would wear mismatched socks every school day. My slightly strange logic was that then even if I didn't get into college, I would have accomplished something. When I entered college in the fall, I was still wearing mismatched socks.

People have noticed both my mismatched socks and my affection for them, and I consequently get a lot of socks as gifts. As Dumbledore said, "One can never have enough socks." That, and I believe socks are one of the greatest gifts a person can receive. While a practical gift on the most obvious level that everyone needs to wear socks - to face winters in New England in any case - socks serve another function that I am more concerned with.

Separated by time and space from so many people I love, my socks provide with me walking mementos. I have a sock drawer full of friends and family and not in the creepy serial killer kind of way. I have superhero socks from my brother, starry socks from my parents, and panda and stripped socks from best friends. So as I walked by the Houses of Parliament and along the Thames this week, my feet and I were thinking of you. Unless you haven't given me socks. In which case, maybe I was still thinking of you, but you'll just have to take your chances now won't you?

Tomorrow, I head off on a day trip to Bath, where I will have to remove my socks at some point. But hey, that means I'll be thinking about a lucky one among you while I strip. Ish.

At Least Nobody Shits in the Pools at the Tower of London

I have finally sat myself down to write about my adventures last weekend. I have armed myself with a bag of cheese savouries, so the task of riffling through my memories to remember where I went only a few days ago seems less daunting.

Friday marked a group field trip to the Tower of London and Borough Market. Our tour at the Tower sufficiently stocked my squeamish quota for the rest of the day. I could have heard about just one disembowelment and/or beheading and that would have been fine, but instead I got to hear probably half a dozen tales of heads being hung on London Bridge after their owners had finally been beheaded. Sweet dreams!

I couldn't help but think about Water Country, my place of summer employ, while we were walking through the Tower of London. Certainly there is more value in a castle, parts of which that date back to the eleventh century, than there is in a small New England amusement park from the eighties, but it was a connection I couldn't not see. (Thankfully, I didn't see any ass crack though, which is not a guarantee at Water Country.) In any case, as our tour guide Steve led us into the chapel for the end of the tour, I found myself wondering how someone got themselves a job as a tour guide at the Tower. Also, didn't it get boring as fuck?

Apparently not. Once in the chapel, in the FAQs portion of the tour, Steve told us about how august his position was. Apparently it takes years of military service, achieving a certain rank, and then a fairly competitive application process. Perhaps it's the years of Water Country speaking - or a misunderstanding of the prestige of working at one of the world's foremost tourist attractions - but it doesn't seem worth it.

That said, beyond the slight Disney-esque feel of the tour, the history of the place itself is astounding. The highlight for me was seeing the room in which the Duke of Clarence, of Richard III fame, was likely killed in. We also went to see the crown jewels, and holy shit that is some ridiculously fancy ass headgear. Royalty must've had ridiculous neck muscles. Yet another reason I don't want to be a princess/queen.

After the Tower of London, we headed across Tower Bridge to Borough Market which has a lot of produce, cheese, and the odd stall of exotic meats.

I did not buy any kangaroo burgers. As a rule, I don't eat animals that have bifurcated penises. Sorry, wombats, that means you're out, too.

After not getting enough of London market life on Friday, some friends and I set out to find one on Portobello Road on Saturday. Portobello Road is apparently one of the unmissable things to do in London, so when we ended up on two shorts streets with people selling laptops from the late nineties and hairdryers with broken cords, we were unimpressed. Cold and disappointed we set off back towards our flats. We had almost reached the tube station when I saw a large tent down a side street. Hoping we had actually found the market now, my friends and I set off again and this time actually found the market which sprawled across several street and down the road.

In other news, despite my inability to find Portobello Road, last week I was asked for directions to the British Museum, which I was able to successfully deliver. Admittedly, we were only a couple hundred feet from the museum at that point, but I'll take whatever reassurances I can get.

Behind Already

Yes, yes, I have fallen woefully behind on chronicling my adventures abroad. I hope to have an account of my weekend adventures by tomorrow, but for now I hope anyone looking for some reassurance that I am alive and conscious can be satiated by this, the first essay for my travel writing class.

It's not like I've never seen pigeons before. Many summers spent whiling away my lunch break at theater camp in downtown Portsmouth at home in New Hampshire have left me no stranger to the fat, gray lumps of bird that fill London in throngs. But the pigeons here are different.

At home when out with my family, I've often stalked pigeons. I've raised my arms in front of me in the warm summer air countless times, crouching lower to the ground and inching behind the pigeons. My fingers twitch.

“No need to buy dinner, Ma,” I've said menacingly as I approached my prey. I have not pursued London pigeons, though I've been tempted. Their sheer numbers are such an invitation that it seems a waste to let them walk confidently on sidewalks, park greens, and alleys, undisturbed by what I will call my hunting instinct that is really just a childlike longing to see the fear in their beady, orange eyes before I make them fly off and get the fuck out of my way. But I have not chased the pigeons in London. Somehow, I doubt they'd mind as much.

No, the pigeons here seem fearless. Their fearlessness might be common of all big city pigeons, but I haven't spent enough time in cities to know. The pictures I've seen from my parents' honeymoon in Venice lead me to believe that the pigeons there are overflowing with a hubris tied to their sense of mortality. That's not true of Portsmouth pigeons. And I've spent a few days in New York City and scattered time in Boston, but I never noticed pigeons like these. They wander inches from me and call out to each other in little stuttering hums that make them sound like miniature lawnmowers. They strut towards me, mocking me with their pigeon chests puffed out under the ruffle of gray and white feathers. They glare at me with one eye, reminding me that they could peck out my eyes if they wanted to and give Hitchcock a sequel.

Of course, they walk the same. Their heads bob as they walk, making them look like deranged windup toys. They peck at the same sorts of trash left behind. They still all flock to bread as though it was the body of Christ. That is, of course, all the same. Their general habits are unaltered across the Atlantic, but their attitude is different. They have an audacity unmatched by any American pigeon I have ever chased down the street. Here in London, the pigeons seem unperturbed by the proximity of people, which is, perhaps, not biologically beneficial.

And certainly these pigeons have little to fear from me, despite my chasing habits. Were I to catch a pigeon, I would not know what to do with it. I assume breaking its neck would work, but I would then be left bewildered and holding the body of a bird. I could probably find instructions on how to pluck the feathers, roast the bird, and eat the spongey little legs – if they're even edible – but the idea of actually doing so is unappealing. But others may not balk at bird carcasses. I have a rather weak stomach, after all.

But the fact remains that the pigeons here, in their boldness, seem stupider than the ones I have known at home. I am no biologist, but their lack of fear seems like a distinct disadvantage when confronted with the perils of pigeon life in a city. The other day, I was waiting to cross a street and there were, as there so often are, pigeons milling about near pedestrians' feet. Near me, a well-dressed woman in a dress and boots was impatiently waiting to cross the street. Perhaps it was her fashion sense that attracted the pigeons to her, but whatever it was, two pigeons were wandering quite close to her feet. One edged closer to the leather of her boots. The woman twitched her foot to the side to kick the pigeon.

I let a vague sound slip from me into the air as the pigeon fluttered away, now of its own accord. The people around me, all waiting to cross the street, seemed unimpressed. Perhaps pigeon kicking is common when waiting for the light to change or perhaps the people of London are more used to someone using any and all action required to remove over-invasive birds from their personal space. I can't say I have done enough research on the matter to offer conclusive results.

But perhaps, with time, I too will shrug my shoulders when I see legs lash away from bodies to send pigeons flying. Perhaps when I return home, I will see a pigeon fluttering away from a toddler stumbling towards it while the child is still yards away and hiss “pussy!” at the bird under my breath. Maybe the next time one of these bold London birds lifts off the sidewalk and flies directly at my face, I will not leap back and cry out, but will swiftly lift my leg above my head and deliver a perfectly executed roundhouse kick. But for now, as they strut past on the sidewalk with just one of their orange eyes peering at me out the side of their head, I'll leer back with both of my eyes and mutter, “You're just like the rest of them. I could fucking eat you for dinner.”

I Mustache You This Question...

Where did you find that ring?

Why, I found it in London, vaguely near St. Paul's! I didn't actually get the mustache ring because I am cheap and have found that mustache rings can very rarely be worn on formal occasions. And I only wear rings on formal occasions because who needs fancy fingers on a regular basis? Not me.

My dressed-down appendages did come in handy for the ridiculous amount of walking accomplished today. My class had to meet at the Temple tube station for the first walking tour we had as part of our London History class. We walked up to Fleet Street and saw the Royal Court of Justice. As a nerd of the courts in the US, I was more than a little excited to see the huge ass court.

The rest of the walking tour was spent walking up Fleet Street into the City of London (which funnily enough is not the same thing as straight up London... go figure). We stopped by the Temple Church, walked down the street that was where Shakespeare lived when he was residing in London, and ended up where Blackfriars Theatre used to be.

Some friends and I then spent the next few hours mucking around, wandering in and out of shops, and accidentally finding historic sites, which isn't hard to do when they're everywhere, I suppose. At one point we found a small playground, which I took delight in playing on for a few minutes. We also ended up in some luxury shopping building surrounded by men and women in suits. Awkwardly underdressed, we didn't stay too long and I was left wondering if perhaps I should have gotten that mustache ring.

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.