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.