a hog-killin' time

Hay bales.  Line dancing.  Cowboy hats, flannel shirts, and British accents.  Something doesn't quite fit, right?  I'm going to go ahead and hazard a guess that no one associates hoedowns with England.

However, for reasons that will remain forever a mystery to me, this is exactly where I found myself last night- at an English hoedown.  My host sister is running the London Marathon in two weekends and all of the participants are supposed to choose a charity to raise money for while preparing for the race.  Amy has chosen the North London Hospice, where both of my host parents' fathers spent their final days.  I'm sure a lot of marathoners raise their money by simply asking around for people to sponsor their run but the Smart family simply does not roll like that.  If there's any opportunity for crafting or parties, my host mom Diane is on it faster than you can say "giddy up."  On Friday night, I found her in the living room sewing leather fringe onto a denim vest.  This lady means business, ya'll.

Thus, the Hospice Hoedown Fundraiser was born.  Before I knew it, Danielle and I had brand new cowboy hats waiting for us in our room, courtesy of Diane, and we were donning our Western-most attire for a night of rough ridin' with some London city slickers.

Soon after we arrived at the country club where the hoedown was held, we were greeted by my host dad Fred, complete with sheriff's badge, neckerchief, and low-slung gun holster, and Diane, who was carrying around a long black leather whip.  Unfortunately, we arrived too late for the official line dancing.  Not that the rest of the night was devoid of it. . . I did learn a line dance that accompanies Billy Ray Cyrus' hit single "Achy Breaky Heart" from a small group of middle-aged women.  However, we missed the "official" line dances, which, of course, means that there was a caller.  They actually located someone who was sufficiently well versed in American country line dancing that they could act as a caller.  In England.  When I asked Diane if people knew how to do the dances, she replied, "Oh, it's easy, all you have to do is yell 'yee-haw' at the end!"

Now, first of all, I would like everyone to take a second here and imagine someone with an English accent saying "yee-haw."  Now try and say it.  I tried my darnedest to copy the way it rolled off Diane's tongue but I really just couldn't do it.  It doesn't work.  That little detail of the night is what made this strange culture fusion so glaringly obvious to me.  The hoedown was essentially a group of English people's interpretation of a very narrow slice of Americana.  If I felt like being a brat, it would be easy to be offended by this oversimplified representation of my culture.  Obviously, I'm not going to do that, because I love me some good honky tonk line dancing as much as the next girl.  However, the bizarre ways that people mimic different cultures is definitely worth considering.  Imagine if we had some sort of British themed party back in the States.  I immediately picture a group of Americans pretending to be overly polite and posh, while imitating an exaggerated British accent and drinking from tea cups with pinkies extended for extra sophistication.  I'm sure that Diane and Fred would think that would be just as odd/hilarious as I found the hoedown.

No matter how weird it was, though, I have to say that English people know how to throw a damn good hoedown.  That's probably a bit of an overgeneralization- my host family is most certainly a special, fantastic, eccentric breed.  Either way, if you ever happen to find yourself with an invitation to a wild west shindig in England, cowboy up and show 'em how the Cotton-Eyed Joe is really done.

blog? what blog?

Alas, I've forgotten about this yet again.  As a token of my sincerest apologies, please accept this video of the miniature accordion master that I saw on the metro in Rome.

I was about to start writing about what's happened since I've returned from spring break, but this baby busker has reminded of something I've been meaning to do for a while.  BUSKING aka playing music in public places as a backhanded way of begging for money- I think it's pretty awesome.  I recently added it to my bucket list.  Not that I actively plan on living in such a manner that would necessitate begging for money on the streets... I just think it would be really fun to sit outside and play music for people for a bit.  I could sing and play some undetermined instrument (maybe I'll do this after I learn how to play the cello?), perhaps with a friend and entertain passersby.  I'm thinking lovable town troubadour, Gilmore Girls-style, not creepy lurker.  

The reason I've suddenly thought so much about this is because London is overflowing with really talented street musicians.  I've heard/seen classical violin, really intense rock (complete with mini drum set), sultry jazz trumpet, didgeridoo, beat boxing, and countless other musical acts- and that's only in the tube stations.  At first, I was really amazed at how good all of the tube performers are.  Then, I did a bit research.  I noticed that most tube buskers stand in areas with large decals, either on the floor or on the wall behind them, which say "Let the music transport you" and have a little "Mayor of London" logo in the corner.  They're all really great because they're all licensed buskers that have auditioned for a much sought after spot in the London underground system! That's actually a thing that people can do! The city sponsors a busking program to promote the arts and make Londoners' hectic commutes a little more pleasant.  I don't know if this is unique to London, or if I'm just really inexperienced with cities.  Either way, colour me impressed. 

I see you, London.  Keep doin' you.  

just a stranger on a bus

Over the past few days, I’ve had two eerily similar experiences in Salzburg and Venice.  If it happens again in Rome, it will be a magical trifecta of serendipity. 

On Friday night, on our way back to our hotel, my friend and I were trying to figure out which bus stop to get off at, while struggling to stay awake after about seven hours of planes, trains, and automobiles.  We attempted to match up the German nonsense that came from the speakers on the bus with the stop names on the screen at the front, without much luck.  We absolutely would have ended up riding the bus in at least two loops if we hadn’t been saved by our grandpa guardian.

About half way through our commute, an elderly man sat down across the aisle from us.  Right before one of the stops, he tapped me on the arm and asked me something.  I began attempting to half-say, half-mime that we don’t speak German, when he said “hotel,” pointing to the right with a grin.  I looked around, confused, and he repeated himself, gesturing that we should get off the bus.  As it lurched to a halt, I realized that he was indeed correct, that was our stop.  We thanked the man and leapt off as he nodded and chuckled to himself. 

As we walked down the street, it struck us how strange it was that he knew exactly which bus stop was ours.  We hadn’t spoken at all while he was sitting near us and I’m pretty sure we weren’t wearing anything glaringly touristy, so I have no clue how he could have known that we were staying in a hotel.  And secondly, of all the hotels in Salzburg, how did he know that we were staying in that specific one?  We chalked it up to some sort of higher guiding power and carried on with our trip.

Then, last night, it happened again in Venice.  While we were making our way back from Rialto to St. Mark’s Square, we inevitably wound up a bit tangled in the Venetian labyrinths.  We crossed deserted canals and scrambled through winding, narrow alleys, and were just about to start worrying when we suddenly came upon an old man.  He looked at us and said “San Marco this way.”  He began to point ahead and walk with us, so we followed him for a bit.  He stopped and said, “San Marco to the right,” then smiled and turned back the way we had come. 

Again, how in the world did this guy know where we were going?  It seemed impossibly similar to our Austrian experience.  In my opinion, it’s almost too fantastic to call coincidence.  I’m not particularly religious, but both men had me singing the “What if God was one of us?” song.  Hopefully, we get lost again in Rome.  I’m looking forward to meeting another adorable savior.  

false start

After my first full day in Salzburg, Austria, I've realized that my spring break is absolutely turning out to be pretty fantastic, despite a very strange and potentially ominous beginning.  We've done the obligatory Sound of Music stops and Mozart-themed things and visited a really great brewery that was playing live Olympic coverage.  Normally, I wouldn't have considered the Olympics worth mentioning in this context but we happened to be in the same room as as inebriated Austrian football team while we watched two Austrian skiers take first and second place in the Mens Slalom.

The spoils of our brewery tour: gross pilsner, chocolate stout, and grapefruit shandy.

Let's back up to the aforementioned ominous start, though- that's the real point of this post.  Shallow pockets and poor planning landed us with a 6:20 am flight out of London Stansted, which is about an hour out of the city.  Naturally, there is no public transportation at 3:15 in the morning, so we arranged for a cab to pick us up from our homestay.  We chose to just not go to sleep that night, so we were running pretty low on energy when all of the phones in the house (which are so more shrill than phones in America, I swear) rang.  We were told that our cab was waiting outside, but ended up waiting in the middle of an eerily deserted Leopold Road for about fifteen minutes, listening to a fox fight.  London has a problem with urban foxes for some reason.  They sound terrifying, like a woman screaming- but I guess that means that I know what the fox says. . .

When our cab finally showed up, the driver leapt out of the van with waaaay too much energy for that time of night, chattering away in some sort of Middle Eastern accent about the GPS taking him to the wrong house.  After we got all settled in, he took off.  And I mean really took off.  The man drove like there was a fleet of gun toting gang members chasing us through the deserted suburban streets.  He also used the shuffling-your-hands-around-the-wheel method of steering, rather than the usual, safer looking cross-one-hand-over-the-other way.  I usually associate the shuffling thing with elderly drivers, but now that I've witnessed two different cab drivers do that, I'm wondering if maybe it's a European thing.  Perhaps my grandmother was actually a very chic driver.  Suddenly, the driver got into a bit of an argument with the GPS.  In response to its directions he said, "Turn right? Can't turn right, turn left, turn right?? This eez joke!!" before promptly cranking the van around in the fastest U-turn I've ever experienced.  I don't mean to make him sound horrible-he was really friendly.  A bit frightening behind the wheel, but pretty entertaining overall.  We drove mostly in silence, except for the scratchy radio broadcast of Jason Derulo and 2 Chainz's love ballad "Talk Dirty To Me" playing in the background.

We got to the airport with the proper two hours to spare before our international flight.  Unfortunately, one of my friends had forgotten to print out her boarding pass and the airline we were with charges 70 pounds if you need to get it from their desk.  We found computers and a printer, but they both charged for their use and came with very little direction.  After spending about 45 minutes battling with the stupid computers, we finally headed toward security.  Then, when she tried to scan the bar code on it to get through the gates, no dice.  As Danielle and I were swept further away into the security crowds, we watched helplessly as Hannah was led in the opposite direction.  Fabulous.

I was still thinking about Hannah as I robotically placed all of my belongings into plastic bins and walked through the security arch.  Of course, the alarm went off.  There was the usual pat down from a miserable security guard, then I went through the arch once more.  Again, the alarm screamed.  COOL.  Someone took my shoes before I was felt up a second time.  Then, the woman said the words that every traveller is simply dying to hear.  "We're going to have to do a private."  Without any further explanation, she turned away and proceeded to help four more people through security, leaving me confused and barefoot.  When her superior finally showed up, she ordered me to put my shoes on, to which I replied "You took my shoes," with just a little bit of snark.  She stared as if she was expecting me to make a run for it, then found my shoes and dropped them in front of me.  I was led to a windowless closet of a room, passing a bewildered Danielle on the way, where they did the exact same thing they had already done outside, just five more times.  The minutes until our boarding time were rapidly dwindling.  Neither of the women made eye contact with me once and I was barely addressed at all until I had to sign their form.  Then, they opened the door and left without another word.  I wonder if they're always that pleasant.

When we finally arrived at our gate just in time, I was suddenly overcome by the absurdity of the previous three hours.  And I began to laugh.  The uncontrollable, hysterical sort of laughter; the kind that makes strangers stare and wonder where your handler went.  I suddenly realized how perfect our cab driver had been and turned to Danielle to repeat his wise and prophetic words.

THIS EEZ JOKE.

a hipster's paradise

Last Sunday, I found it.

The holy grail of vintage lovers, the epicenter of trendiness, the artist's playground, the ultimate hipster's paradise- Brick Lane Market.  Nestled within a few unassuming streets in the village of Shoreditch is a group of endless booths selling everything from handmade leather journals to old records.  I could literally find an appropriate present for every single person I know there.  I saw jewelry made of colored pencils, old typewriters, tribal print bags of every shape and size, colorful prints of London cityscapes, mountains of funky sunglasses, and hats for every occasion imaginable.

AND THE VINTAGE CLOTHING STORES.  Endless caves of cool people things.  Everyone that worked there looked like they were born with edgy haircuts and stylish leather jackets.  They made me want to drink black coffee and burn incense while listening to scratchy records of bands you probably haven't heard of and discussing obscure postmodern literature.  Never have I seen so many ugly sweaters, Titus-worthy retro neon windbreakers, and Gatsby-esque sequined apparel in one place.  After I walked into the first one, I instantly vowed to look four times trendier next time I visit Brick Lane.  At St. Lawrence, my bright blue Patagonia jacket, flannel shirt, and Danskos are totally acceptable, but at Brick Lane they just made me feel painfully dumpy.  I MUST own a wide-brimmed felt hat and Doc Martens and be London chic.

Another really fantastic part about Brick Lane is the food.  Food from every corner of the world imaginable-Thai, Chinese, Mexican, Argentinian, Moroccan, Indian, traditional English.  You could eat at Brick Lane for every meal for a week and still have choices left.  There was even a woman on the street selling gourmet cupcakes and espresso out of the trunk of her car.  Excuse me, the boot of her car.

One more thing: Brick Lane/Shoreditch in general has the most incredible street art EVERYWHERE.  Actually really impressive, meaningful art, not just graffiti.  It's the only place I've ever visited where it would be totally acceptable to just stare at a wall all day.

Here are a couple of my favorites:

If you think these are cool, check out my friend Carolyn's street art blog for more!

two minute update

In the midst of homework and exploring, I realize that I've neglected this blog a bit.  I think I'm finally walking the delicate line between successful student and spontaneous London adventurer, so hopefully this will be updated more regularly.  To make up for my absence in the past couple of weeks, here are a few brief updates.

Since I last posted, I have...

-Seen an obscene number of dogs in clothes.  Coats, sweaters, even boots- in London, even pets are extra trendy, apparently.

-Visited St. Paul's Cathedral.  I'm not a particularly religious person, but this place is gorrrrrrgeous.  When you walk beneath the dome and cast your eyes upward to gaze at the glittering mosaics high above, you're struck with the kind of beauty whose weight almost makes you fall over backward.

-Fallen in love with the Tate Britain.  It's by far my favorite museum here and I'm pretty sure I could happily live there, if they were to allocate me a cozy broom closet.  London secret: museum cafes have to absolute best coffee EVER.

-Found the most idyllic used bookstore, right down the road from my homestay, complete with funky decorations, a comfy couch covered with brightly colored pillows and afghans, circa 1975, and a very well-stocked Roald Dahl section.

-Found an equally fabulous cafe/bakery, which happens to be right next to the aforementioned idyllic bookstore.  It sells fantastic coffee in cavernous mugs, freshly made sandwiches on exotic looking bread, the largest croissants I've ever seen in my life, and cheesecakes that deserve to be photographed for an upscale food magazine.  What more can a girl ask for?

-Participated in a Camden Town pub crawl, which ended in a old horse stable-turned night club.  Interesting, considering that Camden Town is essentially the Jersey Shore of London.

-Been slapped in the face with the realization that I'm kind of almost a real-ish adult.  If I had a pound for every time I've passed a parent who tells their hyperactive toddler to "watch out for the LADY" or each time a barista has called me "ma'am,"  I might actually be able to afford something from Harrod's.  On one hand, it's kind of exciting and empowering.  Yeah, I'm not just a girl, I'm a lady!
...But on the other hand, WHERE THE HECK IS PETER PAN WHEN YOU NEED HIM??

-Attempted to learn the meaning of Stonehenge, to no avail.  The mystery of it adds to its appeal, though, I would definitely suggest visiting this giant pile of rocks in the middle of a field.

-And, last, but certainly not least, been invited by my host parents to a hoedown-themed party, "costumes highly encouraged."  Get out yer dancin' boots, ya'll.

That's all for the moment, but more to come, more frequently!

a public service announcement

For anyone who has any ambitions to travel, EVER, please allow me to provide you with a possible destination- Ireland.  I promise, you will never regret it.

We didn't have class last Friday, so most of us took advantage of the long weekend and set off to other places around Europe.  Some went to Barcelona, Amsterdam, Edinburgh, but a few friends and I chose Galway, Ireland.  Why Galway, you ask?  I definitely got a few incredulous "Galway? Why Galway?" comments from my host family and our program director.  After a few preliminary google image searches (yes, that is, in fact, the level of sophistication I use to make major life decisions), we realized that there really was no other choice.  Quaint and colorful streets, rolling green hillsides, the Cliffs of Moher, and castles.  LOTS of castles.  It also happens to be the birthplace of the "claddagh" ring that pretty much anyone of Irish descent owns, and is right next to the Aran Islands, which are famous for producing those unbelievably warm and perfect Irish wool sweaters.  What's not to love?

So, last Thursday, off we went.  Tube, train, plane, cab.  I received my first ever stamp in my passport at the Shannon airport and then we were picked up by our very own cab driver, Pat #1 (both cab drivers we had that weekend were named Pat), who met us with a sign that said "Meeting Samantha Weber."  No big deal, they love me there.  A particularly surly Eastern European man checked us into our hostel, but after that, every single person we met in Galway proved that Irish people are SO friendly.  Our waiters, the ladies working at the wool sweater stores, our tour bus driver, Billy- all unfailingly kind and talkative.

Billy is the man responsible for convincing me that Ireland is the most magical place in the world (apart from Harry Potter world, obviously).  Sure, the full Irish breakfasts, the Bailey's coffee, and the pilots and flight attendants-themed stag party we encountered were all great, but the places we got to go on our bus tour were incomparable.  I can't attest to the rest of Ireland, but the Western coast is straight out of a fairytale.  There's no way real people live there, they all must secretly be sprites and warlocks and princesses.  Simply saying the names of the towns we drove through- places like Lisdoonvarna and Ballylaghan, make me feel as if I'm casting a spell.  We saw a bunch of old castles, usually with some sort of creepy legend attached to them, and a few faerie forts.  They have faeries! With an underground network and secret powers and special enchanted trees! The entire landscape was crisscrossed with mortarless stone walls, which looked as if they had been magically summoned there centuries ago.  As enchanting as all of this was, though, my favorite part of the weekend was our visit to the Cliffs of Moher.  These 700 foot sheer cliffs are the ones featured in the horcrux-in-a-cave scene in the sixth Harry Potter movie.  You just can't get more magical than that.  The sun was finally fighting through the rain clouds, the endless rock faces were reigning over the tumultuous sea below, and the wind- well, the wind was just having a party.  Near the highest point of the cliffs, it was most likely gusting at speeds of almost 70 mph.  I'm not even exaggerating, it completely blew out the windshield of another tour bus earlier in the day.  People were walking diagonally, struggling against an invisible opponent, while spluttering through the sea spray and desperately clutching to railings and small children.  It seemed like Mother Nature was attempting to erase the entire landscape and start over.  It was freezing, it was ridiculous, but most of all, it was a complete blast.  Most people towards the top were just laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it all.

I do hope to go back there one day during slightly milder weather, but for now, I'm more than satisfied with my brief stint in Ireland.  Honestly, I can't be more serious when I say that everyone should try to make it there at some point.  Everything about it is endearing and beautiful.  Except for black pudding, maybe not that.  If you don't know what it's made of, give it go on the ol' google machine and try to keep down your lunch.  Besides that, I couldn't be happier with my first foray into the rest of the EU!