For my second favorite Harry in all of England (after the Potter but before the prince…)

*Don’t be too offended you aren’t number one Harry…if I loved you the way I love Harry Potter–that is to say, with the burning intensity that consumes me until I could explode like a million imploding suns–you would probably have to be on the lookout checking that I wasn’t trying to sneak into your flat all the time like the other junkies needing to take a shit…

So, my good friends, once again, I apologize for being neglectful.  You may thank Harry Hughes for being the Jiminy Cricket conscience prompting me to blog action.  I figured, seeing as I’m now pretty much done with school, I might as well tell you a little about it.

Just kidding.  I officially need to be heading off to the my pub haunt of choice, the Hobgoblin, for which I am already feeling nostalgic.  Only two more nights to drink Cider. Also to drink legally.  Gots to live it up.

Apologies, sweet Harry!  I promise that I will actually write a blog worthy to your valorous name–perhaps back in CO though when I have nothing to do for two weeks but read and paint my toenails.

Amsterdam: In which Alaina proves she is no fun at all and will die a lonely intellectual.

“I’m sorry you’re going to have to turn that off.  We’ve begun our descent.”  I was shaken awake by a mavue-lipsticked flight attendant.  I nodded and began to make the motions of turning off my iPod. However, as she walked away, I stopped my compliant passenger act and returned to listening.*  Afterall, Amsterdam is a city where the most standard laws that govern every other polis of the civilized world are nonexistent entities.  As the plane’s wheels made bumpy contact with Dutch soil, I–with an ecstatic grin plastered to my face–happened to be listening to this little number.  I will now share it with you so you too can feeling for the magnitude of the moment.

*MOM AND DAD: I give you this warning now. This is only the first and perhaps most minor of many transgressions and taboos to be broken during my time in Amsterdam.  If ignorance be your bliss, I suggest exiting this screen and going back to playing Mahjong Titans immediately.

By happy chance, our hostel was located in a place I like to think of as the “green-light district” of Amsterdam.  Seemingly every business lining our street were alternating “coffeehouses” and munchie-food stands with the most glorious pizzas and chocolate covered waffles singing Siren’s calls from their windows.  As it was already nighttime and we could not waste any of our precious Amsterdam hours, we quickly dumped our backpacks in lockers at the hostel and hit up a nearby coffee shop to sample the local flavor… cappuccino of course.  And what is coffee without a little slice of coffeecake to go with it?

We then wandered over to the Red Light District, which (needless to say after being hyped up on so much coffee) was one of the strangest experiences of my life.  We walked past the beautiful young women painted, preening, posing in their little red boxes–many simultaneously carrying casual conversations on their cell phones.  Mutli-taskers they are, these Amsterdam prostitutes.  Who were they talking to?  It was only the first of many wonderings of the night.

We then went to a sex show, which I observed in the way one might observe a particularly gory scene of Shark Week–powerless to change the channel yet slightly squirmy on the insides.  Mostly I was so distracted by my ever-wandering thoughts and many epiphanies (forgotten almost as soon as they were discovered) on sex, love, and humanity.  I would sometimes try to talk to my friend, Mary Alice, who was unfortunate enough to be sitting next to me as I attempted to enlighten her to all the findings of my coffee-induced brilliance.  She would give me a skeptical sideways glance and say something like , “Ummm…ok, Alaina…”.  And I would go back to my ponderings on the commodification of the sacred or musing on the purpose of a kiss.

It turns out I would have no rest from this hyper-cerebral, hyper-intense, hypersensitive state of mind.  The caffeine high from drinking so much coffee was excessive.  It was only unfortunate to have my brain so turned-on when everyone around me seemed to be turning their’s off.  Raging in a packed club in Entertainment Square? Pub crawling around the Red Light District? Not quite as fun when you begin to look at everyone around you–including the cute blond Brit you’ve just met, who happened to be celebrating a friend’s Stag Night (read the Hangover Amsterdam Style), who seems perfectly nice and keeps buying you drinks–and can’t help but think, My god, these people are animals.

The only places I could say that I felt truly at ease with my surroundings were at the Reijk and Van Gogh Museums. Here, surrounded by the brilliant light and revolutionary perspective of the Dutch Painters, infatuated with dreams of Starry Nights and Sunflowers, a calm washed over me.  My mind was not still, but it was not the turbulent sea of troubles it had been in almost every other waking moment.

It is also worth noting that I learned in Amsterdam that I cannot look at Anne Frank’s face without welling up in tears (making the journey through the Anne Frank house an embarrassing one).  And NEVER give me a camera after I’ve had my Amsterdam morning coffee because I will become some scary alter-ego who believes she is Man Ray and Paul Strand. But cooler.

Obviously, I am not cooler. Or I would have had a crazy, bitchin-fun time in Amsterdam. Sorry for (not)partying.

Cheers!

In True Usher Styler These Are My Confessions…

I apologize for being so negligent of my blogging duties!  I was rather busy garnering these here experiences (amongst others) and, you know, trying to live my life beyond the flourescent screen of my laptop and clicking of my keyboard.  But here they are, these are my confessions, (you know you just sang it in your head).  However, in the true spirit of being on my semester abroad, fuck it, it’s my life (and these three months don’t really count as real life anyway) bitches! So to get in the spirit, a little mash-up that sets the mood? No regrets. I apologize for nothing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=og_8Trt_nTs

1.  I cannot tell a lie.  The fire alarm that went off at 3:00 a.m.? Yeah. That was me.

After a night of dirty dancing amongst a glossy-eyed yet exuberant mob of young Londoners, I returned to my room covered in spilled drinks, sweat, and probably many other unpleasant things I would rather not think about.  Even in my exhausted, slightly drunken stupor I knew that the next morning would not be pretty if I didn’t clean  myself up now.  Thus, I got in and took a steamy, refreshing shower.  In my relief to have Herbal Essence scented locks and exfoliated pores, I paid no mind to the very important sign located in every bathroom of the Loring Hall dorm: “Steam will activate bedroom smoke alarms. Keep door closed.”  Within a moment of opening the bathroom door and not slamming it shut behind me, the very angry, impossibly loud blaring of the fire alarm went off.  Standing dripping wet and wrapped in my towel, I began to hear people grumbling and shuffling about in the corridor. Oh my god. If I go out they will know it was me and everyone will HATE me for setting off the fire alarm at three in the morning! That’s when I decided to hide in my room until the drill was over and never tell a soul about it. WHEW. It’s good to get that one off my chest.

2.  That girl in Hyde Park looking like a complete goober scooting along on roller blades– who ate shit, not once but TWICE?  Yeah, that was me too.

One of my new British friends happens to be a competitive roller blader with mad skills.  His fb page is littered with photos of him doing really intense rails, leaping around, and in general, doing really badass things on roller blades. He offered to take me and my three American girl friends to beautiful Hyde Park to learn how to blade.  He used to work at a skate shop nearby and could get us equipment FO FREE! Poor boy, he didn’t know what was coming to him.  He could not foresee my general lack of motor skills.  Needless to say, the left side of my butt/upper thigh will never be the same.  The bruising after two very embarrassing falls on the SAME EXACT SPOT has turned my ass into a canvas of the deepest shade of plum.  It is an expansive, all-encompassing sort of bruise.  I thought about putting a picture up but it would not be stomached for the weak of heart.  The pure, unadulterated gore would certainly turn people off from ever reading this blog again.

3. That girl who went to Fabric and didn’t have fun? Yeah that was me.

After almost three weeks of being in London, my friends and I had yet to make an appearance at a Central London club.  We decided to rectify this situation on a Sunday night after a few glasses of Frosty Jacks.  I got all dolled up in a very tight, little black dress, put on red patent leather heels, and was ready to take on the night and make my American party sisters proud! (Paris and Nikki, the Kardashian triumvirate, and Alaina Rook? It seems a pretty natural grouping, does it not?)  We took off on a journey to Fabric, a club about which we had only heard good things.  What is a journey without getting lost, however?  After wandering some sketchy, deserted streets for half an hour (suddenly the patent leather pumps were not seeming so glamorous), we finally made our way into the club. VIP line of course (the heels were back in good graces). House music was thumping about, however, it wasn’t very good and sounded more like elevator music.  Boys were bustling about on all sides, but none could really captivate the imagination (in an attempt to flirt with one of my friends one unfortunately hook-nosed Swiss fellow told her she had a “strange face”.  That’s when we really knew it was time to say adios to Fabric).  After staying ljust ong enough to justify the ten pounds we spent on cover fee, we high-tailed it out of there to find a McDonald’s and to get something truly satisfying–like a McFlurry.

4.  That girl who has been gazing whimsically upon the auburn-haired lads littering the Goldsmiths halls and classrooms?  Yup. Me again.

I’ve never been one to fancy a red-headed male* but some of the gingers at my new school put the reputation to shame.  Think Edward Cullen (I’m so deeply sorry for the Twilight reference, it’s the only way I could think to put in the magnitude of this hotness).  Would I like a copper haired man with porcelain white skin and beautiful green/blue/hazel eyes?  My new, resounding answer is an emphatic yes, please.  We shall see how this new infatuation with the man of scarlet locks unfolds, but who knows?  Perhaps once you go auburn you never go back?

*Exception: Rupert Grint.  Who could not love the boy who brought Ron Weasely to life? I recently met a girl who actually spent a night raging with Rupert Grint.  I had the urge to kiss her and pull her hair out simultaneously, seeing as this is only THE DREAM OF MY LIFE.

Blog on Amsterdam to come shortly! I know you are bursting with excitement for that little diddy to arrive but PLEASE try to contain yourselves. 

Cheers!

Freshers Fortnight and Frosty Jacks

It’s officially October and you know what that means…SCHOOL IS IN SESSION! (Oh wait, wasn’t that supposed to happen like a month ago…?) Anyway imagine it’s the eve of your first day in school–there you are, anxious with anticipation as read over your class schedule wondering what the quarter might have in store for you, excited by the shiny new pens, binders, and books lining your desk, mentally preparing yourself to dazzle your teachers and peers with your endlessly expansive wealth of knowledge, and of course, putting on party shoes to hit the pub.  (Or maybe that’s just me…)

“Freshers Fortnight” is the alliterative name for what is basically orientation week, which even more basically just means that all over the Goldsmiths campus, freshman are running around being freshman, and thus, super obnoxious.  But seeing how ”freshman” can sometimes be more a state of mind than an actual gradient in the hierarchy of schooling, this week perhaps affects us all.  It is the time where we can all make dubious decisions and be plagued with only the briefest bit of remorse.

On the last night ”Freshers Fortnight,” this eve before the first of school, it was a happy chance that a group of new British friends invited me and my three American friends out to meet them for a drink at the Royal Albert.

The journey to find our way to this meeting point because:

1. On the way there we came across a dreadlocked guitarist, who lacked in skill but made up for it with intense enthusiasm. He seemed intent to teach us musical theory and serenade us all night long (Taylor Seitz if you happen to remember the night of “Justin of the Rose…in his mouth” downtown C Springs, then just think that this guy was even worse…) but luckily we were able to extricate ourselves by pretending to take his number and giving him a promise to come watch him play sometime.

2.  We were under the impression we were looking for a pub called the “Prince Albert” rather than the “Royal Albert.”  Big difference I’m afraid.

However, when we finally arrived we sat down for some drinks and amiable conversation with our new friends.  Soon after we decided to kick the party up a notch, going back to their flat so we could drink cheep cider* and play drinking games**.

*By cider, I mean my new best mate, Frosty Jacks–a lovely combination of cider and Windex, which is sold in a two liter bottle for about one pound.

**By drinking games I mean a couple really rollicking, rowdy rounds of Kings.  However, after hearing some truly awful British accent impersonations from my American counterparts, a little side game also came up in which my British friends gave each of us a phrase to say with and English accent.  After hearing me blow up the phrase, “Please, may I have a melon and two carrots,” it was decided that I was the winner by a landslide.  As I beamed with ebullient joy and excitement (finally all the years of practice have paid off!), it was even declared that I could maybe/kind of actually pass for a real Brit with that accent. SUCK ON THAT!

The merriment and Frosty Jacks lasted until almost 4:00 a.m. and upon my return to my room, I felt an insatiable urge to eat many slices of Nutella toast and watch several episodes of my new obsession –the British show, Skins (think Degrassi but with English accents and hotter guys). Needless to say, getting up for class the next morning was not the easiest of tasks…and that is with my first class starting at 2:00 in the afternoon (or 14:00 as they would say here).

All I can say is thank goodness I’ve gotten all that”Freshers Fortnight” nonsense out of my system and now can really get down to business!  (Or…not…)

Cheers Mates!

Reasons I Fit In With the Students of Goldsmiths

In  my first few nights at my “uni” I have carefully observed my fellow students and with the enthusiasm and prowess of a modern-day Jane Goodall (substitute hipster British youth for gorillas) and I have happily come to the conclusion that in my new world I am home amongst truly kindred spirits.  Here are some observations that most clearly illustrate the instant bond and affinity I have had with the eclectic, electric group of people who call themselves the Goldsmiths student body.

Observation: stumbling isn’t just a favorite way of passing time on the internet–it’s a way of life.

Whether taking a tumble down the winding, rain-slick New Cross streets, slipping on spilled drinks on the dance floor of the student union or Hobgoblin (the Border can suck it–my new hang of choice is a local pub that to its essence is the embodiment of every characteristic that a dingy English tavern should be), or most commonly, tripping on one’s own two feet in a haze of intense inebriation, staying upright in London is much more difficult than anticipated.  The students of Goldsmiths seem to be masters of picking themselves back up, unscathed, ready to keep on keepin on–dancing, drinking, smoking, loving, shouting expletives with their adorable accents, more drinking…

Conclusion: I am home sweet home with a people who are entirely ok with getting down and dirty.

Observation:  Wearing lingerie in public is acceptable. FINALLY.

I’ve been doing it for years–corsets under cardigans, negligee under dress shirts–but I have only just realized that this was the minor leagues, kiddie stuff.  The girl’s of Goldsmith’s have taken converting their under garments into fashion to a whole new level.  Case in point: Sophie.  Last night in the bathroom of the student union, a pretty girl stumbled into me at the sink (see above for more on stumbling).  I helped her up with kindness and empathy at the sight of her glassy eyes and sweat-mussed hair.  I felt I knew her story, because yes, in fact, I once was a freshman too.  We could share the title of queen of embarrassing blackouts.  Then I happened to notice her outfit.  Precariously buttoned plaid shirt, scuffed black heels, sheer black panty hose with runs, the most severe of which were dangerously near her butt.  And if you were wondering how I could most clearly see the runs on her butt then your answer is this: because she was not wearing pants.  She was wearing underwear.  Not boyshorts or spandex. Little black lacy underwear. But don’t worry.  She had underwear on beneath the tights too. A red lacy thong.  Was I slightly appalled?  Perhaps.  Was I also immensely excited by the prospect of the lingerie fashion forward experiments I could possibly get away with here, in this place where underwear and runny-hose are acceptable attire to a school sponsored event? Clearly.

Conclusion:  Packing the thigh high fishnets was not a waste.  However, leaving behind the gold and black lace corset was a mistake.

Observation:  When searching for a conversation starter with the cute boy standing next to you at the bar, or smoking beside you on the balcony, or sitting near you at the flat, just ask if they bought their ticket for Deadmau5 yet.  This instantly starts a conversation about dubstep in which you can dazzle them with your vast knowledge and musical library.  This often leads to comments like, “Wow, I thought it was just a British thing” to which you can respond with something like, “Nope, but I mean I’m from Colorado which is like the coolest state ever with the best musical appreciation amongst other things…”  At which time you can continue to dazzle them with statistics on the quality and prevalency of marijuana and anecdotes of shredding gnar all the winter long, while all the while enjoying 300 days of sunshine a year.  If they don’t want to marry you for a green card by the end of the conversation then you “are absolute shit at life” (said in a cute British accent, as one of my new friends would say).

Conclusion:  Thank you, Colorado.

Observation:  The NUMBER ONE reason I truly belong at Goldsmith’s University is more a fact than it is an observation.  And it is this:  Goldsmiths is a University worthy of a princess. literally.  I got to school with a princess.  Princess Beatrice of York.  I didn’t even realize that royalty existed outside of sexy Prince William and Harry, so when I was told I was skeptical–damn, this kid is fucking with me because he thinks I’m some gullible American!  So I decided to further investigate with my friend Google, and then with my other friend Wikipedia, and it is true.  I GO TO SCHOOL WITH A PRINCESS.  She apparently studies History, and as I am signed up for two history courses here this quarter it’s quite possible I could find next week when class starts that I could also be sharing a classroom with a princess.

Conclusion:  After years of princess jokes, my parents should find this irony amusing.

Cheers Chaps!

Just Touched Down In London Town

For your listening pleasure…the current soundtrack of my life:

Here I sit, writing to you fresh from a pre-London adventure–twenty days of adventure with Kira Halling, darling friend and backpacking buddy extraordinaire.  So now the only question (aside from my dubious fate for the next three months)  is what better time to would there ever be to start a blog* of my European EXTRAVAGANZA?”

*For all my most beloved comrades, I give you this gift of a blog so you can keep tabs on my existence, seeing as many of you have questioned how I will survive Europe with a somewhat shady soundness of judgement and general lack of life skills.  (It’s ok. I question them too.) But with the help of this blog you may rest safely assured that I have not ended up on drugs and sold into the sex trade like that girl in “Taken” (for as my father warned me before my departure, he lacks the “very particular set of skills” that Liam Neeson so aptly boasts and if anything happens, unfortunately, I’m shit out of luck).

As I have yet to experience  many close encounters with the people and places of this great country, other than two devilishly handsome British lads sharing our compartment on the train to Zagreb (another story for another time), and my airplane-seat neighbor–an elderly man with an inordinate amount of  ear hair who seemed to be under the impression that our mutually shared armrest actually extended halfway into my lap–perhaps I will begin with a mere list of things I hope to accomplish in my time across the pond:

1.       Be the first twenty year old, American muggle to enroll as a first-year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

2. Channel my inner sassy, British songstress.  No one can croon a scorned woman song with quite as much fury as my favorite raging ladies of the U.K.  I’ve begun preparations for this with an entire summer featuring the musical stylings of Lily Allen, La Roux, Kate Nash, and Lady Sovereign.  Continue on musical journey here:

3.  Return to the land of Stars and Stripes with a Union Jack to my name…and no, by that I do not mean coming home with a decorative flag to hang above the Marion Street fireplace next to the roomie family portrait.  If I don’t find myself homeward bound with at least one British beau whose face belongs next to Emma Watson in a Burberry advertisement, my entire abroad experience will have been in vain.

4.  Find Banksy, make him my best friend, and eventually coerce him into tattooing an original creation on my body.

5.  Do not forget that the entire purpose of being here is not merely to swim naked in the Thames, pub crawl my way across the greater London area, and befriend every futbol hooligan I happen across. I AM HERE TO GARNER KNOWLEDGE. Hello to Shakespeare and Thomas Hardy!  Hello sites of historical relevance and art/artifacts of the British Museum!

6. Russell Brand.  Take that any way you want.

7.  Perfect my grasp on the British accent so it’s not quite so obvious I’m just a big faker every time I come upon the (highly intoxicated) whim to speak the Queen’s English.

8.  Continue down the path of becoming the person I am meant to be…new and improved with experience living abroad!

Alas, I’m off to adventure and that will be all for now. Much love and many passionate kisses. Cheery-Ho, chaps!