Conversation Infiltration...and Other Things

Let me begin by saying that it has been a rather momentous week.  It's not that anything happened that I wasn't expecting at some point, like winning the lottery off of a ticket handed to me by a stranger, or getting stuck in the cockpit of a  burning plane because I was too 'portly' to escape.  (The latter did happen to Harold MacMillan, Churchill's envoy to Algiers, in 1943).  Rather, I've simply been feeling great satisfaction and a release of pent up stress as things fall into place.  Namely, I have finally received my passport and visa, and bought a ticket back to Nebraska for the 21st of March.  I'm looking forward to eating huge amounts of burgers sans horse meat.  Although, to be clear, I didn't eat any horse meat here.  In addition, I have begun a new job, doing research for a genealogy company in London, which promises to be interesting and, even more exciting, was granted a renewal of my British Library Card for three years!  

One of the best parts of last week was a trip down to Exeter with my friend S.  We met at Paddington Station on Friday morning where we proceeded to indulge ourselves on coffee and bagels.  Exeter was stunning that day.  I hadn't yet had the opportunity to actually walk around town, but this was the perfect day for its debut.  The old part of the city reminded me of a quaint village, but after a short walk, we suddenly came upon the modern shopping mall which included all of the shops you could want, even an Apple Store.  After coffee on a terrace cafe (where I actually was forced to take my coat off for a brief period because it was TOO SUNNY) we trekked to campus where I met with my thesis supervisor in a room so filled with books I could actually feel myself breathing tiny paper flakes.  I should also mention that there were two chairs in the room, one of them a huge brown seen-better-days armchair.  

The entire day was lovely, including our lunch at a restaurant called 'The Living Room.'  I was a little disappointed, though, that there were no couches, only long picnic like tables.  Doesn't it seem a bit misleading to call a place 'The Living Room' and not be forced to eat off of a TV tray while sitting in an armchair?  However, on three separate occasions during the day, we had different individuals jump into the middle of our conversations.  Just to clarify, yes, they were strangers.  The first time, we were walking through a tiny passageway in the old part of Exeter when S made a comment.  A man walking towards us immediately repeated what she said in a loud voice.  I realise that Exeter is not London and that there are less Americans living there, but is that really necessary?  Nervous laughter really is the only response to an encounter like that.  Later the same day we were also imitated by teenage boys on skateboards.  This experience was made awkward by the fact that in the end, we were all walking at about the same speed.  No!  We couldn't get away!  What could we do but keep talking, loudly and proudly.  Still, it was one of those awkward situations, like when you get home and realise that the pre pubescent boys walking too close behind you were spitting on your backpack.  Not acceptable.  

Once back in London, S and I were headed to a pub in the Spitalfields area, where we used to live, called The Water Poet.  They have a beer garden, acceptably clean bathrooms, and an unusual number of mirrors.  On the tube S was telling me a story about how when she first moved to London and got her phone, the phone salesman who was setting up her contract asked her if she wanted to transfer her old number to her new phone.  She laughed and said that since she had just moved here she didn't have any friends so she really didn't have any numbers to transfer.  As we were getting off the Tube, a man behind us jumped in and said, "Girls are always complaining.  There are plenty of nice people right in front of you that you can be friends with."  Now, while I think that most of the time jumping into someone's conversation is just plain awkward not to mention unnecessary, if you really feel that you must do so, at least make sure you have the context of the story right.  That in itself brings up all sorts of questions about eavesdropping.  Really, the only times I want a stranger contributing to my personal conversation is if I'm looking for the nearest cash point and he/she happens to know where it is.  

Regardless of the oddity of strangers breaking into personal conversations, the week has been such a pleasure.  Finally, I can rest secure in the fact that I once again possess valid I.D. documents and will maybe get to see some snow on the ground in wintry Nebraska.  

Optimal Levels of Stress

Psychology research tells readers that there is an optimal level of stress: where one is motivated enough to perform to high levels.  At this level, one is neither crushed by the invisible force field of parental expectations or the chaotic mood swings of a pill addicted boss, nor is one under so little pressure that the sombrero wearing ghost of procrastination rears its oh so charming head.  However, I have a bone to pick with this theory of optimal stress levels.  I spent this week in bed, sick with a virus that successively morphed from the definition of a hacking cough to the flu, to settle into its final stages as a cold.  I am incensed.  During my time in undergrad, I balanced 22 hours of classes, 30 hours per week at a student job, and always managed, by sheer willpower, to hold off sickness until I had nothing better to do than either be sick or lounge on a warm beach in Hawaii while listening to the sweet sweet sounds or Erasure's A Little Respect.  Now, my life is the definition of optimal stress!  I work two days a week and spend the rest of my week trying to become the sommelier equivalent in books.  How can doing what I love have forced me to spend an entire week in bed?  Could it be that I'm not stressed enough to hold off sickness or is some other force at work?  A careful analysis is required.

I feel in limbo at the moment, suspended between student and tourist.  I cling to a family Christmas that is waiting for me at 'home' and a cancelled ticket that hasn't been rebooked.  The UK Border Agency has now held my passport for two months.  Inside is my current visa, which expires tomorrow, and in my daily life I get by with my highly suspect Nebraska 'Operators License', which absolutely no one is obligated to accept.  Without my passport, I haven't been able to register as a student, nor have I been able to gain access to my PhD funding.  A few days ago, I watched the film Yes Man, where the two protagonists took a spur of the moment trip on the first flight out of the airport: to Lincoln Nebraska.  I actually teared up when I saw the images of 21st St. and the Husker Band.  I think it was because I felt cheated: cheated out of a trip home that I still haven't gotten.  More than that, I'm in a situation that I have absolutely no control over.  One of the most stressful things is being in a foreign country with no passport and a tentative legal right to remain.  Here I am, sitting in London.  The radio is on BBC Radio Six and the news is about the discussion in U.S. government for immigration reform.  Obama believes that laws to keep illegal immigrants out aren't working, but emphasizes that similarly, it's too hard for people to immigrate to the U.S.  What is the point, Britain, of educating foreign students at your best universities, taking their money for the exorbitant international student fees, watching them spend money on highly taxed goods such as alcohol and cigarettes, and then chasing them away, with all of their creative spirit?  This is a facilitation of your own brain drain!

It doesn't seem to me that I don't have enough stress or not enough.  Rather, I have the type of stress that I can't do anything about.  In undergrad I could study during my every waking hour and some of those when I should have been sleeping.  I could do something.  In this case, there is little I can do to get my passport back any faster.  Yes, I love living in London, but I want to have a life here, not play the waiting game.

This Thursday, I am meeting with two people from the University of Exeter in the hopes that they can clear me for registration without having received my new visa yet, a prospect as exciting as when my 10 year old self got a pair of overalls for Christmas.  In the meantime, I am relying upon the perfume like scent of 70 year old pages of archived Foreign Office papers and telegrams to remind me that all is not lost.  There is something magical about being a historian, regardless of whether I'm officially a student of history or not.  Today, while researching at the archives, I came across a telegram.  Across the bottom read, "Please burn after perusing."  It reminded me of my sister and I's notes that we used to pass across to each other on long car trips, pretending to be secret agents, bank robbers, or 1920's flappers.  Ahhh yes, my love of words and reading has prevailed again.  It's time to restore my optimal levels of stress, passport or no passport.

A Little Respect

It's Snowing in London

I've always wanted to live in London.  As a child growing up in a small town in Nebraska, I was fascinated by the architecture of the Houses of Parliament, the pristine uniforms of the palace guard, and the grandeur of St. Paul's Cathedral.  There was, however, as there is with most beliefs about a place we've never actually visited in the flesh, a huge amount of oversimplification and romanticization.  I never considered how expensive it is to live in this bustling metropolis, how unglamorous the outer zones can be to live in, or how much I would miss having a large tumble dryer that left my clothes crackling with static and heat.  Despite all of this, I still love London.  There is some element that has entered my very being, from the mechanical smell of Paddington Station to the industrial landscape of Hackney Wick where I now reside, that justifies my struggle to build a life here.  This blog is about just that: my life in London, my inexplicable love for this city, and my quest to settle here.

Last year, I lived what felt like a charmed life as a Master's student at the London School of Economics.  I had access to affordable student accommodation a five minute walk from Liverpool Street Station and moments away from all the amenities (pubs, clubs, and Sainsbury's) that a student requires.  Furthermore, I lived with six of the loveliest flatmates that anyone could ask for.  We spent evening after evening drinking copious amounts of wine, playing Hearts, and proofreading each others' essays.

Now, I am facing up to the struggle of living in a foreign country where, unfortunately, the frustration of immigration laws and visa requirements serve to remind you that no matter how much you may want to live somewhere, this simply may not be possible.  So, dear reader, please join me on my journey, whether engaging in battle with the UK Border Agency or spending superfluous amounts of money on public transport, to settle in the city I want to live in, not just a city I can live in.

P.S. It's snowing in London.