Jacqueline Abelson's Blog, page 3
January 31, 2017
Understanding The Purpose Of The Women’s March
January 21st marked The Women’s March, bringing tens of thousands of people together of all genders, races and ages in Washington D.C. and across the country.
So if you woke up Saturday morning and saw a massive swarm of people wearing pink hats and holding signs outside your home, that’s what was happening.
However, it’s impossible NOT to avoid the news of The Woman’s March, since it was organized by a dozen independent coordinators at the state level to rally people to participate in the March. There was even a wide spread invitation via Facebook to encourage people to sign up for the March.
Now to some, a lot of people still have no idea what the Women’s March was about.
Were we just marching because we had lost the election to Trump?
No.
Were we just marching to be "complaining feminists?"
No.
Were we just marching because we were angry liberals?
No.
We were marching for A TON of reasons.
Just to name a few:
Planned Parenthood, the environment, college tuition, Black Lives Matter, the refugee crisis, women’s equality, same-sex marriage, people with disabilities, immigration, etc.
And that’s not even half of the topics that people recognized and defended during the Women’s March. So many people attended this March with their own beliefs and their own agenda to protect something that was within the same vein as human rights.
So, no.
It was not all about Trump. In fact, the Women’s March was so much more than an anti-Trump rally.
It was not all about being the “radical” man-hating feminists that many people mistaken for real feminism. In reality, this was a March influencing both men and women.
And it was not about shoving our liberal beliefs down other people’s throats. Just because some of the biggest marches took place in liberal cities across the country (i.e. Los Angeles, Boston, New York, Portland) didn’t mean that there were still some pretty big crowds that gathered together in states that are initially conservative. Look at Anchorage, Alaska. Topeka, Kansas. And Houston, Texas.
And if that’s not enough to impress you, there were even marches held internationally in countries such as Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Russia, and more.
The March was honestly about a lot of different things. But most importantly, it was about unity, and coming together as a community.
Not to mention, having an awesome excuse to make the most creative posters for the March.
Besides the posters, the other main attraction at the March were the pink hats that everyone was wearing. These hats looked like they were knitted beanies with cat ears. These were called “pussy hats.” These hats were worn during the rally as a symbol of solidarity amongst the marchers after Trump’s “pussy comment” went viral this past October. 
So what kinds of people attended this March?
Well, first and foremost, there were four different types of people:
Type #1: You are a man/woman who did participate in the March on Saturday, and did your research and knew exactly what you were rallying for.
Congratulations! You go Glenn Coco!
Score: 5 pink hats for you.
Type #2: You are a man/woman who did participate in the March on Saturday, but were unsure as to what you were rallying for.
All right, so not quite as polished, but you made the effort to come out to the March anyway.
Score: 3 pink hats for you.
Type #3: You are a man/woman who didn’t participate in the March, but you knew what the agenda was for the March.
You might’ve been sick that day. You might be claustrophobic and can’t handle big crowds. Or you might’ve had to work that day, but you did your homework nonetheless. Good for you!
Score: 4 1/2 pink hats for you.
Type #4: You are a man/women who didn’t participate in the March, and you have no idea or have some preconceived ideas of what you might think the Women’s March was actually about.
Seriously? You couldn’t take 5 minutes to sit down and just go online?
Score: No pink hats for you.
All right, so addressing the people who fall under the Type 4 category, the Women’s March was much more than what many people generally believed it to be about. Granted, many women were absolutely horrified that Trump had won the general election because his policies could be a huge setback for women’s health and rights. However, that being said, the March was not all anti-Trump. Instead, the March itself was an affirmative message to the new administration that “women’s rights are human rights.” More so, that is why people decided to called it a “march” or a “rally,” instead of a protest. Although, for many, they were protesting against the new administration’s agenda.
Furthermore, wouldn’t the message be kinda flat if this March was primarily a “Trump is bad” protest?
Well think about it.
If the March was just a protest against him, then that only derails the message of what the March was really about.
So what exactly was the purpose of the March?
#1: Shared Humanity
The March aimed (and succeeded) to bring together people of all genders and backgrounds to proclaims its goal “to affirm our shared humanity and pronounce our bold message of resistance and self-determination."
So what exactly does this mean?
According to the Women’s March platform, it is a list of demands that includes incremental goals and specific actions that would benefit the rights for all. Among the statement of principals that were called to be recognized:
Freedom from sexual violence, ratifying the Equal Rights Amendment to the Constitution that would guarantee equal protection based on gender, comprehensive reproductive rights, LGBTQ rights, and immigrant and refugee rights.
In summary, just granting everyone the same freedom as everyone else.
#2: Differences in Priorities and Beliefs
This March was neither part of a liberal agenda, nor was it established to be part of a conservative agenda. Instead, the March’s aim was to be a unifying agenda.
Again, if you went into this March thinking that this was only an anti-Trump protest, you are sadly mistaken.
While it’s safe to assume that within the sea of pink, many people who showed up to the march would rally for the same thing. But the truth of the matter was, there were definitely people who cared primarily about one or two of the many messages that the March’s platform supported, while there were others who disagreed.
For example, within the crowd, there were some pro-life advocates who joined the March because they were just as disgusted by Trump’s comments (as any woman would be) and agreed with some topics of the March’s platform. Yes, they may have been against abortion, and this topic alone could’ve potentially divide people, but it didn’t. Instead it brought both advocates together because they could agree with more than just one thing that the Woman’s March stood for.
Whether they were pro-life or pro-choice, they nevertheless all fell under the same umbrella as marching for human rights.
#3: Everyone Coming Together
Even though the name of the March’s platform was centered around women, men were also welcomed and participated in the March. But not just men, other individuals who identified as non-binary genders as well joined. Everyone rallied together to stand up for other marginalized groups and pressing issues. The Women’s March itself became a meeting point for all people from many diverse groups to raise their voices and bring to light topics that mattered to them.
Now even though, everyone who came to this March, were rallying for a different agenda, it’s safe to say that everyone across the globe were united under Trump’s win.
While the March’s platform doesn’t mention the new president by name, the connection to his win and the validation of what his administration stands for has fueled a lot of the energy behind this March. Many Americans may have been motivated specifically by the leaked tape back in October to become politically active in support of woman and human rights, and clearly the March provided an opportunity to do just that.
So the Women’s March was a rally that supported more than just one thing. The purpose of the March was a to protect legislation and policies regarding human rights. Different people who marched, rallied for a range of different issues.
To be clear, the march was not an anti-Trump protest to root for him to fail as president. On the contrary, it was a March with a mission to stand up for equality during the next four years, and preserving democracy and the First Amendment.
Scarlett Johansson said it best when she addressed Trump during the Women’s March in Washington DC:
"I didn't vote for you. But I want to be able to support you. But first I ask that you support me.”
I’m happy to say that I had to privilege to join the Women’s March in Boston. That morning, I left my boyfriend’s apartment at 8 o’clock to take an Uber back home to change into the only electric pink outfit I could find: My fleece sweater. My roommate and I boarded a crowded Green Line train that was leaving from Cleveland Circle to the Boston Commons with passengers wearing pink hats (which became the day’s uniform) and carrying sings.
It was then I realized that we were not just joining a march.
We were going to be part of a movement.
Cited Works:
The Women’s March on Washington Official Website: https://www.womensmarch.com
Scarlett Johansson’s Speech at Women’s March in Washington DC: http://www.inquisitr.com/3906844/scarlett-johansson-to-donald-trump-at-womens-march-in-washington-i-want-to-be-able-to-support-you/
Photo Credit by Katie Clancy
So if you woke up Saturday morning and saw a massive swarm of people wearing pink hats and holding signs outside your home, that’s what was happening.
However, it’s impossible NOT to avoid the news of The Woman’s March, since it was organized by a dozen independent coordinators at the state level to rally people to participate in the March. There was even a wide spread invitation via Facebook to encourage people to sign up for the March. Now to some, a lot of people still have no idea what the Women’s March was about.
Were we just marching because we had lost the election to Trump?
No.
Were we just marching to be "complaining feminists?"
No.
Were we just marching because we were angry liberals?
No.
We were marching for A TON of reasons.
Just to name a few:
Planned Parenthood, the environment, college tuition, Black Lives Matter, the refugee crisis, women’s equality, same-sex marriage, people with disabilities, immigration, etc.
And that’s not even half of the topics that people recognized and defended during the Women’s March. So many people attended this March with their own beliefs and their own agenda to protect something that was within the same vein as human rights.
So, no.
It was not all about Trump. In fact, the Women’s March was so much more than an anti-Trump rally.
It was not all about being the “radical” man-hating feminists that many people mistaken for real feminism. In reality, this was a March influencing both men and women.
And it was not about shoving our liberal beliefs down other people’s throats. Just because some of the biggest marches took place in liberal cities across the country (i.e. Los Angeles, Boston, New York, Portland) didn’t mean that there were still some pretty big crowds that gathered together in states that are initially conservative. Look at Anchorage, Alaska. Topeka, Kansas. And Houston, Texas.
And if that’s not enough to impress you, there were even marches held internationally in countries such as Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Russia, and more.
The March was honestly about a lot of different things. But most importantly, it was about unity, and coming together as a community.
Not to mention, having an awesome excuse to make the most creative posters for the March.
Besides the posters, the other main attraction at the March were the pink hats that everyone was wearing. These hats looked like they were knitted beanies with cat ears. These were called “pussy hats.” These hats were worn during the rally as a symbol of solidarity amongst the marchers after Trump’s “pussy comment” went viral this past October. So what kinds of people attended this March?Well, first and foremost, there were four different types of people:
Type #1: You are a man/woman who did participate in the March on Saturday, and did your research and knew exactly what you were rallying for.
Congratulations! You go Glenn Coco!
Score: 5 pink hats for you.
Type #2: You are a man/woman who did participate in the March on Saturday, but were unsure as to what you were rallying for.All right, so not quite as polished, but you made the effort to come out to the March anyway.
Score: 3 pink hats for you.
Type #3: You are a man/woman who didn’t participate in the March, but you knew what the agenda was for the March.You might’ve been sick that day. You might be claustrophobic and can’t handle big crowds. Or you might’ve had to work that day, but you did your homework nonetheless. Good for you!
Score: 4 1/2 pink hats for you.
Type #4: You are a man/women who didn’t participate in the March, and you have no idea or have some preconceived ideas of what you might think the Women’s March was actually about.Seriously? You couldn’t take 5 minutes to sit down and just go online?
Score: No pink hats for you.
All right, so addressing the people who fall under the Type 4 category, the Women’s March was much more than what many people generally believed it to be about. Granted, many women were absolutely horrified that Trump had won the general election because his policies could be a huge setback for women’s health and rights. However, that being said, the March was not all anti-Trump. Instead, the March itself was an affirmative message to the new administration that “women’s rights are human rights.” More so, that is why people decided to called it a “march” or a “rally,” instead of a protest. Although, for many, they were protesting against the new administration’s agenda. Furthermore, wouldn’t the message be kinda flat if this March was primarily a “Trump is bad” protest?
Well think about it.
If the March was just a protest against him, then that only derails the message of what the March was really about.
So what exactly was the purpose of the March?
#1: Shared Humanity
The March aimed (and succeeded) to bring together people of all genders and backgrounds to proclaims its goal “to affirm our shared humanity and pronounce our bold message of resistance and self-determination."So what exactly does this mean?
According to the Women’s March platform, it is a list of demands that includes incremental goals and specific actions that would benefit the rights for all. Among the statement of principals that were called to be recognized:
Freedom from sexual violence, ratifying the Equal Rights Amendment to the Constitution that would guarantee equal protection based on gender, comprehensive reproductive rights, LGBTQ rights, and immigrant and refugee rights.
In summary, just granting everyone the same freedom as everyone else.
#2: Differences in Priorities and Beliefs
This March was neither part of a liberal agenda, nor was it established to be part of a conservative agenda. Instead, the March’s aim was to be a unifying agenda. Again, if you went into this March thinking that this was only an anti-Trump protest, you are sadly mistaken.
While it’s safe to assume that within the sea of pink, many people who showed up to the march would rally for the same thing. But the truth of the matter was, there were definitely people who cared primarily about one or two of the many messages that the March’s platform supported, while there were others who disagreed.
For example, within the crowd, there were some pro-life advocates who joined the March because they were just as disgusted by Trump’s comments (as any woman would be) and agreed with some topics of the March’s platform. Yes, they may have been against abortion, and this topic alone could’ve potentially divide people, but it didn’t. Instead it brought both advocates together because they could agree with more than just one thing that the Woman’s March stood for.
Whether they were pro-life or pro-choice, they nevertheless all fell under the same umbrella as marching for human rights.
#3: Everyone Coming Together
Even though the name of the March’s platform was centered around women, men were also welcomed and participated in the March. But not just men, other individuals who identified as non-binary genders as well joined. Everyone rallied together to stand up for other marginalized groups and pressing issues. The Women’s March itself became a meeting point for all people from many diverse groups to raise their voices and bring to light topics that mattered to them. Now even though, everyone who came to this March, were rallying for a different agenda, it’s safe to say that everyone across the globe were united under Trump’s win.
While the March’s platform doesn’t mention the new president by name, the connection to his win and the validation of what his administration stands for has fueled a lot of the energy behind this March. Many Americans may have been motivated specifically by the leaked tape back in October to become politically active in support of woman and human rights, and clearly the March provided an opportunity to do just that.
So the Women’s March was a rally that supported more than just one thing. The purpose of the March was a to protect legislation and policies regarding human rights. Different people who marched, rallied for a range of different issues.To be clear, the march was not an anti-Trump protest to root for him to fail as president. On the contrary, it was a March with a mission to stand up for equality during the next four years, and preserving democracy and the First Amendment.
Scarlett Johansson said it best when she addressed Trump during the Women’s March in Washington DC:
"I didn't vote for you. But I want to be able to support you. But first I ask that you support me.”
I’m happy to say that I had to privilege to join the Women’s March in Boston. That morning, I left my boyfriend’s apartment at 8 o’clock to take an Uber back home to change into the only electric pink outfit I could find: My fleece sweater. My roommate and I boarded a crowded Green Line train that was leaving from Cleveland Circle to the Boston Commons with passengers wearing pink hats (which became the day’s uniform) and carrying sings.
It was then I realized that we were not just joining a march.
We were going to be part of a movement.
Cited Works:The Women’s March on Washington Official Website: https://www.womensmarch.com
Scarlett Johansson’s Speech at Women’s March in Washington DC: http://www.inquisitr.com/3906844/scarlett-johansson-to-donald-trump-at-womens-march-in-washington-i-want-to-be-able-to-support-you/
Photo Credit by Katie Clancy
December 26, 2016
50 Things I Learned In My First Week In Boston
It has now been six months since I've moved to Boston, and what an adventure it has been.
Whenever I find myself in a new location I always try to absorb as much information as I can in order to blend in with the locals. Sometimes it's easy, but most of the time it's an adjustment. I would like to think that everyone feels a bit lost or shocked when they immerse themselves within a new city – especially one with so much history and on the opposite side of the country.
So if you have a desire to check out Boston, here are a couple of things for you to make your transition into Beatown a whole lot smoothly.
*And for those who are looking to visit the UK, check out my previous article that I wrote about the 50 Things I Learned In My First Week In London.*
#1: You have to like the New England Patriots. 
#2: Scratch that. You have to LOVE the New England Patriots. To be qualified to live in Boston, your appreciation for the New England Patriots must reach a certain accecptable limit for you to enjoy the city. Otherwise you'll be shunned and ostrosized from all forms of social gatherings and group conversations. If your heart is for another NFL team that is NOT the Patriots, fine. Just as long as you at least acknowledge and respect the New England Patriots, you're in the clear. Unless you're a Jets fan. In which case, you're totally screwed. 
#3: Essentially, every sports team in Boston is deemed as important. Sports are a major part of the city's culture. Bostonians are known for their fanatical devotion to the Red Sox, the Bruins, the Celtics and – of course – the legendary New England Patriots. This, I actually fascinating. Coming from the Los Angeles area, I was always surrounded by merchandise for the Lakers, the Kings, the Dodgers and (now recently) the Rams. But I always personally felt that the presence of sports teams in LA were not as admired nor as glorified the same way as they are in Boston. I think it's because Boston has produced some great champions over the years. You can never go a week without hearing Tom Brady's name mentioned at least once. Nor overhear a converation about how Larry Bird was the best power forward that the NBA ever had. And good luck trying to escape a confrontation when someone agrues that "Big Papi" holds the record for the most home runs in MLB history. So if you plan on establishing your roots in Boston, it's critical that you familiarize yourself with Boston's intense sports teams and quickly become a fan. 
#4: Most people perfer Dunkin Donuts over Starbucks. While this may at first seem unfathamable, it's actually true. Dunkin was first established in Massachusetts in 1950 WAY before Starbucks was founded in 1971 in Seattle. To many Bostonians, Dunkin is native to the New England territory, while Starbucks is viewed as a kind of invader. Granted, although you will find an equal number of both Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks coffeehouses on every other block, Dunkin Donuts is the place to get real New England coffee. 
#5: You'll encounter the following words when you're in New England: "Wicked," "Masshole," "Bang a uey," or the most famous one of all "Park the car in Harvard Yard" (pronounced: Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd). That last one actually doesn't make any sense because you cannot really park your car in the middle of Harvard Yard. 
#6: Go find Bodega. That's all I can tell you. It's a super secret retail store hidden somewhere within Boston. And once you find it, you will never look at retail stores the same way again. 
#7: Wahlburgers is a hamburger restaurant chain in Boston that is owned by Mark Wahlburg and his brothers Donnie and Paul. And it's pretty freaking delicious! 
#8: When it snows, go to Harvard Yard to build a snowman or start a random snowball fight with some of the Harvard undergrads. 
#9: It's worth investing in a monthly MBTA pass. Like, seriously. Yes, it is $84.50 a month – which I understand can be a pain in the ass for some – but it is worth spending that money to easily hop on the T, without worrying if you have enough money on your card. Plus, the advantage of spending $84.50 a month is the fact that the city is both small enough to get you to and from your destination, while also having it be big enough for you to go the extra mile to explore another part of Boston. You can pick up a Charlie Card at the Park Street Station for free! 
#10: Newbury Street is the Fifth Avenue of Boston. It is an entire street filled with high-end boutiques, and the best restaurants for all of eight blocks. Aligned with historic 19th-century brownstones, Newbury Street is a popular destination for tourists and locals alike since it is known as one of the most expensive streets in the world. 
#11: Explore the green oasis that is the Kendall Square Rooftop Garden. This secret garden in Cambridge is on top of a parking garage with a bunch of tables to sit, talk with friends, read or think. There's no restaurants, so grab some lunch and make your way up to view the rest of the city. 
#12: J.P. Licks is the Baskin Robbins of Boston. 
#13: The clam chowder in Boston will be the best clam chowder you will ever have in your life. And rightfully so. If given the opportunity, ask for it in a bread bowl. 
#14: The two best places to get authentic, thick, hot chocolate is L.A. Burdick in Cambridge, and Amorino on Newbury Street. 
#15: Legal. Legal Seafoods everywhere. 
#16: Dollar oysters will be the best thing that will ever happen to you in Boston during the summer. 
#17: If you arrive to Boston with a car, park anywhere that is open on the street. You should plan on getting a parking spot at the end of November. Once you have that spot, DO NOT MOVE until the spring. Bostonians can get really territorial when it comes to parking. So much so that they will even cone off their parking spot to thwart off any potential drivers. 
#18: Candlepin bowling. It's like regular bowling, except each player uses three balls per frame, rather than two. The pins are thinner, making it more difficult to knock down. The best candlepin bowling can be found in South Boston. 
#19: If you say "Cape Cod," people will think you're a tourist. Call it "The Cape." Everyone will know what you're talking about. 
#20: Evacuation Day (March 17th) is a public holiday in Boston that celebrates the date when the British troops were evacuated from the city of Boston during the American Revolutionary War. Everyone takes the day off from school and work to celebrate. It also shares the same day as Saint Patrick's Day. 
#21: Happy Hours are illegal. It's true! Since 1989, the law was passed to reduced drunk driving accidents. Efforts to repeal the happy hour ban in Boston have in the past been unsuccessful. While you still can grab a nice cold beer at your local bar late at night, you might have better luck finding a few cheap drinks elsewhere, if not, then out of the state. 
#22: The Boston University Bridge is one of the only places in the world where a boat can sail under a train, going under a car, that is driving under a plane. 
#23: The Ted Williams Tunnel is the deepest tunnel in North America, running 90 feet underground! 
#24: The CitGo sign is Boston's version of the Hollywood sign. And while its neon presence makes it well known around the Kenmore area, the nearest CitGo gas station is actually 1.5 miles away. 
#25: Isabella Stewart Gardner was the original hoarder. Okay, so maybe she wasn't a compulsive hoarder, but she did travel the world to amass a collection of some of the most priceless paintings in history. Her museum is in Fenway, modeled after a 15th century Venetian palazzo, where visitors can admire and peruse through her collection of rare books and artwork. 
#26: The best Boston cream pie is at the Omni Parker House. It was also first invented there. 
#27: A golden pinecone sits on top of the gold dome of the State House to symbolize the importance of logging to Massachussets in the 18th century. 
#28: If you're starving after a late night flight into Logan airport, take a taxi/uber to Santarpio's in East Boston. There, ask for a "well-done" pizza. It definitely hits the spot and quickly helps you recover from any jetlag. 
#29: Avoid Storrow Drive at all costs after 4 o'clock PM. The road will be in a total gridlock afterwards. 
#30: Eataly will CHANGE YOUR FREAKING LIFE!!! Why? Well, where else do you expect to find a more perfect Italian food emporium that is personally runned by Mario Batali?
#31: You can go stargazing with Harvard Astrophysists. The Harvard Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics hosts monthly observatory nights free to the public. You can sit in on talks or even avoid the crowd by rushing to the roof to view the stary night on their telescopes. 
#32: The ICA (The Insitute of Contemporary Art) is free on Thursday nights from 5 to 9 PM. Any other day, it is a $15 admission fee. 
#33: The Boston Symphony Orchestra keeps a block of $20 tickets for people under 40 years old. They are on a first come, first serve basis. The maximum is only 2 tickets per performance. 
#34: There's a way for you to get free museum passes around Boston! The Boston Public Library has free passes to the New England Aquarium, the MFA, the Children's Museum, the Harvard Natural History Museum, the John F. Kennedy Library Museum and a whole selection of other local attractions. But in order to obtain these free passes, you need a Boston Public Library card. Nevertheless, the savings will be rewarding! 
#35: You can learn swing dancing at MIT. Every Wednesday, the MIT Lindy Hop Society hosts a free dance lesson to teach visitors how to dance from traditional swing, to blues, to hip-hop. 
#36: You can go ice skating at the Warrior Ice Arena. Yup! You indeed read that correctly! You can skate on the same ice as the Boston Bruins at their new training and practice facility at Boston Landing in Brighton. It is open to the public between 1:30 PM – 3:30 PM. And if ice skating isn't your thing, then you can drop-in between 10:30 AM – 12: 30 PM to watch the Boston Bruins themselves practice in the mornings. 
#37: Raven Used Books is the best place to go to obtain affordable, great literature. If you believe that the best kind of books are the ones that are stocked on the shelves instead of viewed online, Raven provides a strong base of books in perfect condition for eager readers. 
#38: You can find and sit on the same bench where Robin Williams and Matt Damon shared a scene in the movie "Good Will Hunting" at the Boston Public Garden. 
#39: Without a doubt, the Beacon Hill neighborhood has some of the most beautiful streets in Boston. 
#40: No matter what people tell you, there is an obvious difference between Mike's Pastry and Modern Pastry in Boston's North End. 
#41: Fall is the best season to explore every inch of the city. 
#42: The ducklings from Robert McCloskey's children's book, Make Way For Ducklings are immortalized as bronze statues at the Boston Public Garden. 
#43: You can take a private tour around WGBH and personally visit the studio where Julia Child filmed her telivision series, The French Chef. 
#44: Every year Canada sends over a Christmas tree from Nova Scotia, as a way to thank the city of Boston for their assistance after the 1917 Halfax Explosion. The tree is lit in the Boston Common throughout the Christmas season. 
#45: The most famous building in the North End is a four-story townhouse that is really skinny. The house was built primarily out of spite after two brothers squabbled over the co-inherited land. While one brother went to fight in the Civil War, the other brother built a huge house on the legally shared property. When the other brother returned from the war, he built a house that was 10.4 feet wide on what remained on the property. Located at 44 Hull Street, the Skinny House is also avaliable for rent for $250 a night. 
#46: You can find a real life Egyptian mummy in Boston! This 2,500-year-old corpse at the Massachussets General Hospital – known as Padihershef – has been on display at the hospital since 1823 after he was given as a present by Dutch merchant Jacon Van Lennep. 
#47: If anyone – friends or family members – decides to visit you in Boston, you are required to take them on a Duck Tour. No excuses. You'll be a bad Bostonian if you don't. 
#48: No one calls this bridge The Longfellow Bridge. All the locals refer to this landmark as the "Salt-and-Pepper Bridge," due to the shape of its central towers. 
#49: Ned Devine's is the place to be on a Saturday night. 
#50: Attend The Head of the Charles Regatta every October. 
Boston is really a great city to live in. Everything is either within walking distance, or easily accessable via their MBTA system. You absolutely will not be bored living in this New England community. Your next adventure might just happen to be around the corner!
Whenever I find myself in a new location I always try to absorb as much information as I can in order to blend in with the locals. Sometimes it's easy, but most of the time it's an adjustment. I would like to think that everyone feels a bit lost or shocked when they immerse themselves within a new city – especially one with so much history and on the opposite side of the country.
So if you have a desire to check out Boston, here are a couple of things for you to make your transition into Beatown a whole lot smoothly.
*And for those who are looking to visit the UK, check out my previous article that I wrote about the 50 Things I Learned In My First Week In London.*
#1: You have to like the New England Patriots. #2: Scratch that. You have to LOVE the New England Patriots. To be qualified to live in Boston, your appreciation for the New England Patriots must reach a certain accecptable limit for you to enjoy the city. Otherwise you'll be shunned and ostrosized from all forms of social gatherings and group conversations. If your heart is for another NFL team that is NOT the Patriots, fine. Just as long as you at least acknowledge and respect the New England Patriots, you're in the clear. Unless you're a Jets fan. In which case, you're totally screwed. #3: Essentially, every sports team in Boston is deemed as important. Sports are a major part of the city's culture. Bostonians are known for their fanatical devotion to the Red Sox, the Bruins, the Celtics and – of course – the legendary New England Patriots. This, I actually fascinating. Coming from the Los Angeles area, I was always surrounded by merchandise for the Lakers, the Kings, the Dodgers and (now recently) the Rams. But I always personally felt that the presence of sports teams in LA were not as admired nor as glorified the same way as they are in Boston. I think it's because Boston has produced some great champions over the years. You can never go a week without hearing Tom Brady's name mentioned at least once. Nor overhear a converation about how Larry Bird was the best power forward that the NBA ever had. And good luck trying to escape a confrontation when someone agrues that "Big Papi" holds the record for the most home runs in MLB history. So if you plan on establishing your roots in Boston, it's critical that you familiarize yourself with Boston's intense sports teams and quickly become a fan. #4: Most people perfer Dunkin Donuts over Starbucks. While this may at first seem unfathamable, it's actually true. Dunkin was first established in Massachusetts in 1950 WAY before Starbucks was founded in 1971 in Seattle. To many Bostonians, Dunkin is native to the New England territory, while Starbucks is viewed as a kind of invader. Granted, although you will find an equal number of both Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks coffeehouses on every other block, Dunkin Donuts is the place to get real New England coffee. #5: You'll encounter the following words when you're in New England: "Wicked," "Masshole," "Bang a uey," or the most famous one of all "Park the car in Harvard Yard" (pronounced: Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd). That last one actually doesn't make any sense because you cannot really park your car in the middle of Harvard Yard. #6: Go find Bodega. That's all I can tell you. It's a super secret retail store hidden somewhere within Boston. And once you find it, you will never look at retail stores the same way again. #7: Wahlburgers is a hamburger restaurant chain in Boston that is owned by Mark Wahlburg and his brothers Donnie and Paul. And it's pretty freaking delicious! #8: When it snows, go to Harvard Yard to build a snowman or start a random snowball fight with some of the Harvard undergrads. #9: It's worth investing in a monthly MBTA pass. Like, seriously. Yes, it is $84.50 a month – which I understand can be a pain in the ass for some – but it is worth spending that money to easily hop on the T, without worrying if you have enough money on your card. Plus, the advantage of spending $84.50 a month is the fact that the city is both small enough to get you to and from your destination, while also having it be big enough for you to go the extra mile to explore another part of Boston. You can pick up a Charlie Card at the Park Street Station for free! #10: Newbury Street is the Fifth Avenue of Boston. It is an entire street filled with high-end boutiques, and the best restaurants for all of eight blocks. Aligned with historic 19th-century brownstones, Newbury Street is a popular destination for tourists and locals alike since it is known as one of the most expensive streets in the world. #11: Explore the green oasis that is the Kendall Square Rooftop Garden. This secret garden in Cambridge is on top of a parking garage with a bunch of tables to sit, talk with friends, read or think. There's no restaurants, so grab some lunch and make your way up to view the rest of the city. #12: J.P. Licks is the Baskin Robbins of Boston. #13: The clam chowder in Boston will be the best clam chowder you will ever have in your life. And rightfully so. If given the opportunity, ask for it in a bread bowl. #14: The two best places to get authentic, thick, hot chocolate is L.A. Burdick in Cambridge, and Amorino on Newbury Street. #15: Legal. Legal Seafoods everywhere. #16: Dollar oysters will be the best thing that will ever happen to you in Boston during the summer. #17: If you arrive to Boston with a car, park anywhere that is open on the street. You should plan on getting a parking spot at the end of November. Once you have that spot, DO NOT MOVE until the spring. Bostonians can get really territorial when it comes to parking. So much so that they will even cone off their parking spot to thwart off any potential drivers. #18: Candlepin bowling. It's like regular bowling, except each player uses three balls per frame, rather than two. The pins are thinner, making it more difficult to knock down. The best candlepin bowling can be found in South Boston. #19: If you say "Cape Cod," people will think you're a tourist. Call it "The Cape." Everyone will know what you're talking about. #20: Evacuation Day (March 17th) is a public holiday in Boston that celebrates the date when the British troops were evacuated from the city of Boston during the American Revolutionary War. Everyone takes the day off from school and work to celebrate. It also shares the same day as Saint Patrick's Day. #21: Happy Hours are illegal. It's true! Since 1989, the law was passed to reduced drunk driving accidents. Efforts to repeal the happy hour ban in Boston have in the past been unsuccessful. While you still can grab a nice cold beer at your local bar late at night, you might have better luck finding a few cheap drinks elsewhere, if not, then out of the state. #22: The Boston University Bridge is one of the only places in the world where a boat can sail under a train, going under a car, that is driving under a plane. #23: The Ted Williams Tunnel is the deepest tunnel in North America, running 90 feet underground! #24: The CitGo sign is Boston's version of the Hollywood sign. And while its neon presence makes it well known around the Kenmore area, the nearest CitGo gas station is actually 1.5 miles away. #25: Isabella Stewart Gardner was the original hoarder. Okay, so maybe she wasn't a compulsive hoarder, but she did travel the world to amass a collection of some of the most priceless paintings in history. Her museum is in Fenway, modeled after a 15th century Venetian palazzo, where visitors can admire and peruse through her collection of rare books and artwork. #26: The best Boston cream pie is at the Omni Parker House. It was also first invented there. #27: A golden pinecone sits on top of the gold dome of the State House to symbolize the importance of logging to Massachussets in the 18th century. #28: If you're starving after a late night flight into Logan airport, take a taxi/uber to Santarpio's in East Boston. There, ask for a "well-done" pizza. It definitely hits the spot and quickly helps you recover from any jetlag. #29: Avoid Storrow Drive at all costs after 4 o'clock PM. The road will be in a total gridlock afterwards. #30: Eataly will CHANGE YOUR FREAKING LIFE!!! Why? Well, where else do you expect to find a more perfect Italian food emporium that is personally runned by Mario Batali? #31: You can go stargazing with Harvard Astrophysists. The Harvard Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics hosts monthly observatory nights free to the public. You can sit in on talks or even avoid the crowd by rushing to the roof to view the stary night on their telescopes. #32: The ICA (The Insitute of Contemporary Art) is free on Thursday nights from 5 to 9 PM. Any other day, it is a $15 admission fee. #33: The Boston Symphony Orchestra keeps a block of $20 tickets for people under 40 years old. They are on a first come, first serve basis. The maximum is only 2 tickets per performance. #34: There's a way for you to get free museum passes around Boston! The Boston Public Library has free passes to the New England Aquarium, the MFA, the Children's Museum, the Harvard Natural History Museum, the John F. Kennedy Library Museum and a whole selection of other local attractions. But in order to obtain these free passes, you need a Boston Public Library card. Nevertheless, the savings will be rewarding! #35: You can learn swing dancing at MIT. Every Wednesday, the MIT Lindy Hop Society hosts a free dance lesson to teach visitors how to dance from traditional swing, to blues, to hip-hop. #36: You can go ice skating at the Warrior Ice Arena. Yup! You indeed read that correctly! You can skate on the same ice as the Boston Bruins at their new training and practice facility at Boston Landing in Brighton. It is open to the public between 1:30 PM – 3:30 PM. And if ice skating isn't your thing, then you can drop-in between 10:30 AM – 12: 30 PM to watch the Boston Bruins themselves practice in the mornings. #37: Raven Used Books is the best place to go to obtain affordable, great literature. If you believe that the best kind of books are the ones that are stocked on the shelves instead of viewed online, Raven provides a strong base of books in perfect condition for eager readers. #38: You can find and sit on the same bench where Robin Williams and Matt Damon shared a scene in the movie "Good Will Hunting" at the Boston Public Garden. #39: Without a doubt, the Beacon Hill neighborhood has some of the most beautiful streets in Boston. #40: No matter what people tell you, there is an obvious difference between Mike's Pastry and Modern Pastry in Boston's North End. #41: Fall is the best season to explore every inch of the city. #42: The ducklings from Robert McCloskey's children's book, Make Way For Ducklings are immortalized as bronze statues at the Boston Public Garden. #43: You can take a private tour around WGBH and personally visit the studio where Julia Child filmed her telivision series, The French Chef. #44: Every year Canada sends over a Christmas tree from Nova Scotia, as a way to thank the city of Boston for their assistance after the 1917 Halfax Explosion. The tree is lit in the Boston Common throughout the Christmas season. #45: The most famous building in the North End is a four-story townhouse that is really skinny. The house was built primarily out of spite after two brothers squabbled over the co-inherited land. While one brother went to fight in the Civil War, the other brother built a huge house on the legally shared property. When the other brother returned from the war, he built a house that was 10.4 feet wide on what remained on the property. Located at 44 Hull Street, the Skinny House is also avaliable for rent for $250 a night. #46: You can find a real life Egyptian mummy in Boston! This 2,500-year-old corpse at the Massachussets General Hospital – known as Padihershef – has been on display at the hospital since 1823 after he was given as a present by Dutch merchant Jacon Van Lennep. #47: If anyone – friends or family members – decides to visit you in Boston, you are required to take them on a Duck Tour. No excuses. You'll be a bad Bostonian if you don't. #48: No one calls this bridge The Longfellow Bridge. All the locals refer to this landmark as the "Salt-and-Pepper Bridge," due to the shape of its central towers. #49: Ned Devine's is the place to be on a Saturday night. #50: Attend The Head of the Charles Regatta every October. Boston is really a great city to live in. Everything is either within walking distance, or easily accessable via their MBTA system. You absolutely will not be bored living in this New England community. Your next adventure might just happen to be around the corner!
November 30, 2016
The Top 20 Treasures of Boston
For those who don’t already know, I’ve MOVED!
Yup, you’ve read that right!
Upon graduating from Mount Holyoke College this past May, I’ve packed up my bags and left sunny California for Patriots territory. AKA: Boston. And as much as I miss the endless summer-esque days, the San Gabriel Mountains, and In-n-Out Burger (let’s be real here) there was just something about the New England atmosphere that begged me to stay.
In all honesty, after living on the East Coast for three years (because one of those four years was spent abroad in England) I felt like I was finally home. Maybe it was the snow. Because for a girl who had never seen snow before in her life until her freshmen year of college, there’s a certain wonderment when you witness the first flurries of winter somersaulting before your eyes. Or perhaps it was the colonial history that New England had to offer. To this day, I am still amazed by the architecture of the old churches that had been erected since the 1600. But the most likely excuse for staying on the East Coast, has been the people I’ve met during my enrollment at Mount Holyoke. Better yet, after graduation a good chunk of us had migrated from the sleepy South Hadley town and established residency within the Boston city limits.
Now when it comes from relocating from one coast to another, one has to properly acclimate to the new terrain. For instance, a hot day in Southern California is MUCH different than a hot day in Boston.
Hint: Blame it on the humidity.
So if you’re like me, and absolutely fell in love with the East Coast and the people, here are a couple of places for you to visit and explore to make Boston feel more like home: #20 Green Dragon Tavern
11 Marshall Street
It is a rare opportunity to find yourself grabbing lunch, dinner or even just a pint of beer at a tavern that once welcomed such famous customers as John Hancock and Samuel Adams. Established in 1654, Green Dragon Tavern to this day is known as the oldest historic bar in all of Boston. It was at this tavern that the Sons of Liberty gathered in the basement to overhear the British’s plan to invade Lexington and Concord. This then prompted the famous ride of Paul Revere. John Hancock would later call this tavern the “Headquarters of the American Revolution” when they began drawing up plans on how to defeat the Redcoats. Today, the original Green Dragon Tavern no longer exists, but the current tavern on 11 Marshall Street was erected nearby the tavern’s old location. Hidden amongst the small side streets, Green Dragon Tavern presently provides a full array of Irish-American dishes, along with a young and vibrant atmosphere for university students and young professionals. Located a block away from Faneuil Hall, Green Dragon Tavern sticks out not as a tourist attraction, but more as a friendly spot for getting together with friends.
#19 The Lawn on D
420 D Street
Believe me when I say that The Lawn on D is something that I had never seen before in my life. While it’s outdoor space may seem like it’s a regular park, the landscape and the recreational set-ups draw people in to engage with the Boston community. Located in the epicenter of the Waterfront and South Boston neighborhood, the Lawn on D invites visitors to partake in bocce, ping-pong and the complimentary free WiFi. But what makes the Lawn on D stand out compared to other parks, is its unique swing set. Round, curved and smoothed over into a perfect circle, they remind patrons of tire swings when they sit down and lull back and forth above the ground. Although these swings are fun to sway on, the best time to swing on them is in the night. There, you get a chance to witness the swing’s LED lights change color when swinging at varying speeds and heights. Affixed with a bar, food vendors and chairs to kick back and lounge about, The Lawn on D is the perfect place to interact and get acquainted with newcomers or locals around the Boston area.
#18 The Esplanade
The Charles River
A perfect balance of outdoor activities and enjoying the view of the city, The Esplanade offers patrons the best of both worlds. Stretching out for three miles along the Boston shore of the Charles River, The Esplanade is a charming and beautiful landscape for walking, running, biking or just sightseeing. The path starts near the Museum of Science and takes you west toward Boston University. Along the way, you’ll pass the iconic Hatch Memorial Shell – where the Boston Pops perform every Fourth of July – various historical monuments and recreational facilities. Alined with over 1,900 trees, exploring The Esplanade in the warm weather is the best way to take in the the nature while also at the same time remaining in the city.
#17 The Swan Boats at the Boston Public Garden
4 Charles Street South
Only open to the public between April – September, the swan boats at the Boston Public Garden is one of the city’s oldest attractions. Established in 1870, the swan boats were first introduced in a time when row boats were the only things operating upon the surface of the Public Garden’s lagoon. But with the popularity of the bicycle expanding, a paddle wheel was invented that was foot-propelled, introducing a new kind of system for steering a boat. Thus bringing to life the swan boats, operating somewhat like bicycles and carrying up to 20 passengers. Today, the Boston has preserved the charm and integrity of the swan boats as one of the most successful businesses in the city. Because the swan boats initially head toward the southern end of the lagoon, you will be able to witness the tall Boston buildings in the distance while also taking note of the Public Garden’s leafy trees and ripping waters. But get there soon! Once summer ends, the crew disassembles the swan boats and stores them for the entire winter until next season.
#16 Brattle Book Shop
9 West Street
If you’re a book lover – like myself – and want to take advantage of all of the independent bookshops around the Boston area (i.e. Brookline Booksmith, Harvard Bookstore, Papercuts J.P., Porter Square Books or Trident Booksellers) Brattle Book Shop should be #1 on your list. While the book shop’s location may be tucked away within the folds of the narrow street, The Brattle is one of the oldest book shops in America. Featuring two floors of general used books, the third floor is reserved for only the rarest 1st edition books that are on display for experienced antiquarian book buyers. Carrying an impressive stock of over 250,000 books and prints, the book shop is notorious for selling out-of-print volumes and an inventory of rare leather binding collectable chronicles. It is worth spending an hour of two among the shelves. Who knows, your fingers might find the spine of a book that could be a treasure.
#15 The Pour House
907 Boylston Street #21
Claimed to be the #1 best bar in all of Boston, The Pour House upholds its reputation by presenting its customers with a good atmosphere. For anyone who just wants to grab a drink after work, or spend a casual night out with friends, you are guaranteed to have a great time at this bar. Why? For one, The Pour House offers reasonably priced drinks and food, so that you don’t feel like you’re dropping a fortune for a measly drink or a questionable looking appetizer. Better yet, with its red brick walls and neon signs, The Pour House encourages everyone who enters through its doors to leave the weight of the world behind them and just blend in with friends and strangers. You can either take up a booth, grab a seat at the bar, or even gravitate downstairs where you will find an ever bigger bar in an even bigger space to enjoy your drink.
#14 Galleria Umberto
289 Hanover Street
It is no secret that the North End of Boston is one of the most fantastic places to visit. Primarily for the food. SO MUCH GOOD FOOD! You cannot go to Boston without at least visiting one good restaurant in the North End. But while some of the restaurants in this tight-knit Italian neighborhood are up-scaled joints, offering the most delectable assortment of pastas, pastries and meats, you sometimes can forget that the real best places are the more smaller businesses. Take Galleria Umberto for example, an old-school Sicilian-style pizza place right in the heart of the busy streets of the North End. Often eclipsed by swarming cafes, line-around-the-block cannoli shops, or high-class trattorias, Galleria Umberto is the pinnacle home of good pizzas in Boston. But here’s the catch: The Galleria is only open during lunch and its closing time is based on when the pizza runs out – usually around 3:00 p.m. That’s why in the early mornings, the tiny garage-like storefront is aligned with people, hurrying to obtain a square slice of that sweet, sweet, Sicilian pie before the pizza runs out.
#13 La Voile
261 Newbury Street
French for “The Sail,” La Voile is a small authentic French restaurant on the acclaimed Newbury Street. For those who are looking to spend a little extra cash for an elegant night out, La Voile is an exceptional choice. Everything inside the restaurant was brought over from France itself. The tables, the chairs, the cutlery and even the vintage chandeliers! For a night, you can pretend that you are in Cannes, enjoying the superb cuisine while also interacting with the waiters and hosts – who are also from France! – to brush up on your French. Bon appétit!
#12 The Salty Pig
130 Dartmouth Street
For the inner-carnivores, The Salty Pig’s selection of house made meats and selected ripe cheeses can satisfy any hungry stomach. With The Salty Pig’s diverse drink menu, customers can order a nice cold beer straight from the tap to wash down any signature cold cut fresh meats they have ordered. With plenty of flatbread sandwiches and pizzas to go around, the mood that The Salty Pig provides is one of comfort and ease. With a restaurant like this located in the Back Bay neighborhood, you will feel like you are amongst locals. Think of The Salty Pig as upper-class grub. The food without a doubt will leave you full and wanting more, but you will also appreciate the classy service that comes with the Back Bay territory.
#11 Casa Romero
30 Gloucester Street
It is no secret that on the west coast, Mexican cuisine is king, Japanese cooking is queen, and Taiwanese dumplings from Din Tai Fung is the crown jewel that holds Southern California together. So when you trade this food kingdom for the East Coast’s monarchy of oysters, lobsters and clams, where do you go to get your fill of divine Mexican food? The answer happens to also be in the Back Bay neighborhood. Welcome to Casa Romero. The most authentic restaurant in all of New England.The entrance to Casa Romero is stowed behind an alleyway, emphasizing just how hidden the restaurant is amongst the larger businesses on Newbury Street. But this is what makes Casa Romero’s charm as a restaurant so appealing. Once you walk in, you feel an instant belonging. It’s the type of restaurant that feels more like a getaway than a night out on the town. If you can, try everything that they have to offer on their menu - I always start my night with their signature Perfect Margarita, especially when Hernán is manning the bar. This is not any ordinary Mexican restaurant in Boston, but one that beats your expectations.
#10 Royale Nightclub
279 Tremont Street
Within every enormous city, there is always a mammoth of a nightlife. Amongst the dance clubs and that you will find in Boston, Royale will fit your expectations as to what night clubbing in Boston will look like. Playing Techno, Top 40, House, et cetera, the personality that Royale offers to its thigh-heigh wielding, crop-top hugging party-goers is an electric night out. Formerly an opera house and holding a capacity of 1,300 people, Royale is a two story nightclub with a wooden dance floor, plush seating and a wrap-around balcony that gives visitors a front row seat at all of the concerts and partying occurring beneath them. Located in the Theater District, Royale is famous for its edgy EDM concerts every Fridays and Saturdays. And if that isn’t enough to convince you, the club has a strict dress code for their patrons to wear something “stylish” or “chic,” upholding their prestige as a classy business while also promising a high-voltage night out.
#9: Coogan’s
171 Milk Street
The best way to describe Coogan’s, is that it’s different. And by that I mean a good different. For example, this corner pub right on the edge of the financial district, offers such topsy-turvy dishes like fried dough, mac ’n’ cheese fitters, and buffalo chicken rangoon. Best known for their award-winning wings, Coogan’s supplies their customers with the cheapest beers in town – $1 Bud Lights everyday! – and a good humored staff. Notorious for its hopping college bar scene by night, Coogan’s is the perfect place to socialize with educated individual within a modern not-too-overly-fancy interior.
#8: Piattini
226 Newbury Street
While the North End of Boston is reserved only for the best and delicious Italian food in the city, you can still find an evenly matched Italian joint on Boston’s famed Newbury Street. Piattini is one of the few places outside of the North End that goes the extra mile in not only offering good authentic Italian food, but also willing to shape the taste buds of their very eager customers. As its name suggests, Piattini’s menu presents its patrons with small plates of flavorful Italian cuisine. And while each plate is diverse in its own tastes, it is the cafe’s wine selection that is the most tantalizing of all. Each glass of wine that is ordered is accompanied by a small card describing the type of wine and the wine’s origins. It’s small and intimate surroundings makes it easy to walk in to grab a quick bite to eat, or to spend an hour sampling the variety of wines. You might just even be tempted to take the whole bottle home with you afterwards.
#7: The Custom House Observation Deck
3 McKinley Square
There is a certain thrill when it comes to living in any city. There’s the thrill of partying at all of the best nightclubs, there’s the thrill of experiencing all of the unique restaurants in your neighborhood, and then there’s the thrill of finding yourself above the city’s skylines. While almost everyone in Boston will tell you to check out either the Prudential Tower’s or the Hancock Tower’s Observation Deck, not many will mention the Custom House’s Observation Deck. Located a five minute walk away from Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market, the Custom House is now a part of the Marriott Hotel. You do not need to be a guest at the hotel to enjoy the splendid panoramic view of Downtown Boston from the tower’s 26th floor. Admission to gain access to the building’s historic clock tower is only $5! Solely available to the public twice a day (except Fridays) at 2 p.m. and 6 p.m. – and when the weather is in good condition – the observation deck looks out over Boston Harbor and the North End. For a place that offers visitors a charming cosmopolitan view, you definitely do not need to drop a load of cash to enjoy the amenities the Custom House has to offer.
#6: Michele Topor’s Boston Food Tours
50 Salem Street
If you ever wanted to taste some of the best authentic Italian and Chinese ingredients in Boston, then Michele Topor is your guide. On her website, Boston Food Tours, Topor captures the small town atmosphere by offering outsiders on her tour an insider look at the history of several undiscovered restaurants in the North End and Chinatown. At nearly every stop on the tour, you’ll enjoy the small tastes of different Italian or Chinese foods and will get the sample wine and bubble tea along the way. To reserve a spot, you must go book in advance online and select one of the two time slots the tour has to offer (10 a.m. or 2 p.m.). And while tickets per person hikes up to $62.00, it is worth strolling the narrow streets of the city and being lured in by all of the aromas and delicious products that you’ll want to bring back home to your pantry.
#5: Neptune Oyster House
63 Salem Street #1
In the mood for a good bowl of clam chowder – or “chowdah” as they say in Boston – or maybe some fired oysters, urchins or the freshest fishes from the market? Then the celebratory atmosphere of Neptune Oyster awaits you. Huddled amongst the North End’s historic Italian neighborhood, Neptune is the type of restaurant that you want to arrive hungry. Specializing in (you guessed it) East Coast oysters and seafood, this casual but sophisticated joint offers spectacular Main lobster rolls and a horseradish cocktail sauce that perfectly ignites flavor to any cool shuck oyster. However, when arriving to Neptune, expect at least an hour long wait. While Neptune’s no-reservation policy ensures crowds of people snaking around the block, it is absolutely worth standing in line.
#4: Maria’s Pastry Shop
46 Cross Street
If you’re a tourists, you would go to Mike’s Pastry. If you had lived in Boston for over a year, you would go to Modern Pastry. But, if you're a local Bostonian, you would go to Maria’s Pastry Shop for the best cannoli’s in the city. Family-run and operated since 1982, Maria’s Pastry Shop is the only place you should go for homemade, authentic Italian pastries. From cream-filled lobster tails, to crunchy cannoli shells, Maria’s Pastry Shop is the clear victor amongst the battle of the cannoli’s between Mike’s and Modern Pastry. But the best part about Maria’s Pastry – unlike the other two cannoli shops – is that there is no throng of people spilling out the doors and on to the sidewalks. Its lesser-known fame as the best cannoli spot in Boston makes Maria’s Pastry Shop a true hidden gem in the city. So if you’re craving for something sweet, and want to avoid the massive lines at Mike’s and Modern Pastry, walk into Maria’s Pastry Shop. It will without a doubt, make your day.
#3: Dumpling Cafe
695 Washington Street
With a lengthy menu and good quality Chinese/Taiwanese food, Dumpling Cafe alone might just triumph over all of the Chinese restaurants in New York City. With perfect soup dumplings and amazing dim sum-style dishes, Dumpling Cafe offers its patrons the best mini steamed pork buns in town. Each dumpling comes stuffed to the brim with rich and sweet juices. You’ll want to eat these dumplings the traditional way in order to enjoy sucking out the hot broth from within. Located in the heart of Boston’s Chinatown district, Dumpling Cafe has everything for meat lovers and vegetarians alike. The building itself is small but quant, a cozy place to go out to dinner in the winter. And for the love of God, arrive with a big appetite. But be prepared. The portions on the menu are so large that you might have to take it all home with you. At least you’ll have some food stored away for the next couple of days if you order correctly.
#2: The Paramount
667 E. Broadway
Craving a carmel and banana french toast to start off your day? Or how about a marinated grilled pork loin for lunch? These dishes are just a few named off from the exceptional menu at The Paramount. Located in South Boston, The Paramount is the perfect place to grab a bite whether its in the mornings for brunch or in the evenings for dinner. Whatever time you decide to pop in, you’ll always be surrounded by the aroma of food being freshly prepared within the comfortable atmosphere that The Paramount has to offer. Not only will you be greeted by the wonderful cuisine, but the staff as well are genuinely kind and caring to make sure that your experience is satisfactory. You’ll definitely feel at home once you walk through the doors.
#1 Afternoon Tea at the Courtyard Restaurant
Boston Public Library
700 Boylston Street
What’s more fun that being surrounded by books? How about curling up with some afternoon tea? Because nothing says perfection like a good book and a nice warm cup of tea inside one of the most famous libraries in the United States. Located inside the Boston Public Library, you can order any choice of tea as you overlook the library’s Florentine style courtyard. For only $35, your afternoon tea experience will be consisted of finger sandwiches such as a classic cucumber and cream cheese, deviled chicken and smoked salmon options. In addition, you’ll also be presented with an array of different pastries and tea scones to make you feel like you’re a Jane Austen heroine. You’ll certainly develop a very serious tea addiction afterwards. 
Boston has a small city feel with big adventures. Although I am still new to the New England terrain, I am still discovering hidden bars and secluded restaurants. Hopefully in the next year I can officially call myself a Bostonian and stop using Google Maps to remind myself how to get to the Theater District. But until then, you’re only new to a city once. You’ll never be a newbie again until you’ve visited every nook and cranny that the city has to offer you. These may be the only 20 hidden gems that I could think of off the top of my head, but they certainly won’t be the last.
Yup, you’ve read that right!
Upon graduating from Mount Holyoke College this past May, I’ve packed up my bags and left sunny California for Patriots territory. AKA: Boston. And as much as I miss the endless summer-esque days, the San Gabriel Mountains, and In-n-Out Burger (let’s be real here) there was just something about the New England atmosphere that begged me to stay.
In all honesty, after living on the East Coast for three years (because one of those four years was spent abroad in England) I felt like I was finally home. Maybe it was the snow. Because for a girl who had never seen snow before in her life until her freshmen year of college, there’s a certain wonderment when you witness the first flurries of winter somersaulting before your eyes. Or perhaps it was the colonial history that New England had to offer. To this day, I am still amazed by the architecture of the old churches that had been erected since the 1600. But the most likely excuse for staying on the East Coast, has been the people I’ve met during my enrollment at Mount Holyoke. Better yet, after graduation a good chunk of us had migrated from the sleepy South Hadley town and established residency within the Boston city limits.
Now when it comes from relocating from one coast to another, one has to properly acclimate to the new terrain. For instance, a hot day in Southern California is MUCH different than a hot day in Boston. Hint: Blame it on the humidity.
So if you’re like me, and absolutely fell in love with the East Coast and the people, here are a couple of places for you to visit and explore to make Boston feel more like home: #20 Green Dragon Tavern
11 Marshall Street
It is a rare opportunity to find yourself grabbing lunch, dinner or even just a pint of beer at a tavern that once welcomed such famous customers as John Hancock and Samuel Adams. Established in 1654, Green Dragon Tavern to this day is known as the oldest historic bar in all of Boston. It was at this tavern that the Sons of Liberty gathered in the basement to overhear the British’s plan to invade Lexington and Concord. This then prompted the famous ride of Paul Revere. John Hancock would later call this tavern the “Headquarters of the American Revolution” when they began drawing up plans on how to defeat the Redcoats. Today, the original Green Dragon Tavern no longer exists, but the current tavern on 11 Marshall Street was erected nearby the tavern’s old location. Hidden amongst the small side streets, Green Dragon Tavern presently provides a full array of Irish-American dishes, along with a young and vibrant atmosphere for university students and young professionals. Located a block away from Faneuil Hall, Green Dragon Tavern sticks out not as a tourist attraction, but more as a friendly spot for getting together with friends. #19 The Lawn on D
420 D Street
Believe me when I say that The Lawn on D is something that I had never seen before in my life. While it’s outdoor space may seem like it’s a regular park, the landscape and the recreational set-ups draw people in to engage with the Boston community. Located in the epicenter of the Waterfront and South Boston neighborhood, the Lawn on D invites visitors to partake in bocce, ping-pong and the complimentary free WiFi. But what makes the Lawn on D stand out compared to other parks, is its unique swing set. Round, curved and smoothed over into a perfect circle, they remind patrons of tire swings when they sit down and lull back and forth above the ground. Although these swings are fun to sway on, the best time to swing on them is in the night. There, you get a chance to witness the swing’s LED lights change color when swinging at varying speeds and heights. Affixed with a bar, food vendors and chairs to kick back and lounge about, The Lawn on D is the perfect place to interact and get acquainted with newcomers or locals around the Boston area. #18 The Esplanade
The Charles River
A perfect balance of outdoor activities and enjoying the view of the city, The Esplanade offers patrons the best of both worlds. Stretching out for three miles along the Boston shore of the Charles River, The Esplanade is a charming and beautiful landscape for walking, running, biking or just sightseeing. The path starts near the Museum of Science and takes you west toward Boston University. Along the way, you’ll pass the iconic Hatch Memorial Shell – where the Boston Pops perform every Fourth of July – various historical monuments and recreational facilities. Alined with over 1,900 trees, exploring The Esplanade in the warm weather is the best way to take in the the nature while also at the same time remaining in the city. #17 The Swan Boats at the Boston Public Garden
4 Charles Street South
Only open to the public between April – September, the swan boats at the Boston Public Garden is one of the city’s oldest attractions. Established in 1870, the swan boats were first introduced in a time when row boats were the only things operating upon the surface of the Public Garden’s lagoon. But with the popularity of the bicycle expanding, a paddle wheel was invented that was foot-propelled, introducing a new kind of system for steering a boat. Thus bringing to life the swan boats, operating somewhat like bicycles and carrying up to 20 passengers. Today, the Boston has preserved the charm and integrity of the swan boats as one of the most successful businesses in the city. Because the swan boats initially head toward the southern end of the lagoon, you will be able to witness the tall Boston buildings in the distance while also taking note of the Public Garden’s leafy trees and ripping waters. But get there soon! Once summer ends, the crew disassembles the swan boats and stores them for the entire winter until next season. #16 Brattle Book Shop
9 West Street
If you’re a book lover – like myself – and want to take advantage of all of the independent bookshops around the Boston area (i.e. Brookline Booksmith, Harvard Bookstore, Papercuts J.P., Porter Square Books or Trident Booksellers) Brattle Book Shop should be #1 on your list. While the book shop’s location may be tucked away within the folds of the narrow street, The Brattle is one of the oldest book shops in America. Featuring two floors of general used books, the third floor is reserved for only the rarest 1st edition books that are on display for experienced antiquarian book buyers. Carrying an impressive stock of over 250,000 books and prints, the book shop is notorious for selling out-of-print volumes and an inventory of rare leather binding collectable chronicles. It is worth spending an hour of two among the shelves. Who knows, your fingers might find the spine of a book that could be a treasure.#15 The Pour House
907 Boylston Street #21
Claimed to be the #1 best bar in all of Boston, The Pour House upholds its reputation by presenting its customers with a good atmosphere. For anyone who just wants to grab a drink after work, or spend a casual night out with friends, you are guaranteed to have a great time at this bar. Why? For one, The Pour House offers reasonably priced drinks and food, so that you don’t feel like you’re dropping a fortune for a measly drink or a questionable looking appetizer. Better yet, with its red brick walls and neon signs, The Pour House encourages everyone who enters through its doors to leave the weight of the world behind them and just blend in with friends and strangers. You can either take up a booth, grab a seat at the bar, or even gravitate downstairs where you will find an ever bigger bar in an even bigger space to enjoy your drink. #14 Galleria Umberto
289 Hanover Street
It is no secret that the North End of Boston is one of the most fantastic places to visit. Primarily for the food. SO MUCH GOOD FOOD! You cannot go to Boston without at least visiting one good restaurant in the North End. But while some of the restaurants in this tight-knit Italian neighborhood are up-scaled joints, offering the most delectable assortment of pastas, pastries and meats, you sometimes can forget that the real best places are the more smaller businesses. Take Galleria Umberto for example, an old-school Sicilian-style pizza place right in the heart of the busy streets of the North End. Often eclipsed by swarming cafes, line-around-the-block cannoli shops, or high-class trattorias, Galleria Umberto is the pinnacle home of good pizzas in Boston. But here’s the catch: The Galleria is only open during lunch and its closing time is based on when the pizza runs out – usually around 3:00 p.m. That’s why in the early mornings, the tiny garage-like storefront is aligned with people, hurrying to obtain a square slice of that sweet, sweet, Sicilian pie before the pizza runs out. #13 La Voile
261 Newbury Street
French for “The Sail,” La Voile is a small authentic French restaurant on the acclaimed Newbury Street. For those who are looking to spend a little extra cash for an elegant night out, La Voile is an exceptional choice. Everything inside the restaurant was brought over from France itself. The tables, the chairs, the cutlery and even the vintage chandeliers! For a night, you can pretend that you are in Cannes, enjoying the superb cuisine while also interacting with the waiters and hosts – who are also from France! – to brush up on your French. Bon appétit! #12 The Salty Pig
130 Dartmouth Street
For the inner-carnivores, The Salty Pig’s selection of house made meats and selected ripe cheeses can satisfy any hungry stomach. With The Salty Pig’s diverse drink menu, customers can order a nice cold beer straight from the tap to wash down any signature cold cut fresh meats they have ordered. With plenty of flatbread sandwiches and pizzas to go around, the mood that The Salty Pig provides is one of comfort and ease. With a restaurant like this located in the Back Bay neighborhood, you will feel like you are amongst locals. Think of The Salty Pig as upper-class grub. The food without a doubt will leave you full and wanting more, but you will also appreciate the classy service that comes with the Back Bay territory. #11 Casa Romero
30 Gloucester Street
It is no secret that on the west coast, Mexican cuisine is king, Japanese cooking is queen, and Taiwanese dumplings from Din Tai Fung is the crown jewel that holds Southern California together. So when you trade this food kingdom for the East Coast’s monarchy of oysters, lobsters and clams, where do you go to get your fill of divine Mexican food? The answer happens to also be in the Back Bay neighborhood. Welcome to Casa Romero. The most authentic restaurant in all of New England.The entrance to Casa Romero is stowed behind an alleyway, emphasizing just how hidden the restaurant is amongst the larger businesses on Newbury Street. But this is what makes Casa Romero’s charm as a restaurant so appealing. Once you walk in, you feel an instant belonging. It’s the type of restaurant that feels more like a getaway than a night out on the town. If you can, try everything that they have to offer on their menu - I always start my night with their signature Perfect Margarita, especially when Hernán is manning the bar. This is not any ordinary Mexican restaurant in Boston, but one that beats your expectations. #10 Royale Nightclub
279 Tremont Street
Within every enormous city, there is always a mammoth of a nightlife. Amongst the dance clubs and that you will find in Boston, Royale will fit your expectations as to what night clubbing in Boston will look like. Playing Techno, Top 40, House, et cetera, the personality that Royale offers to its thigh-heigh wielding, crop-top hugging party-goers is an electric night out. Formerly an opera house and holding a capacity of 1,300 people, Royale is a two story nightclub with a wooden dance floor, plush seating and a wrap-around balcony that gives visitors a front row seat at all of the concerts and partying occurring beneath them. Located in the Theater District, Royale is famous for its edgy EDM concerts every Fridays and Saturdays. And if that isn’t enough to convince you, the club has a strict dress code for their patrons to wear something “stylish” or “chic,” upholding their prestige as a classy business while also promising a high-voltage night out. #9: Coogan’s
171 Milk Street
The best way to describe Coogan’s, is that it’s different. And by that I mean a good different. For example, this corner pub right on the edge of the financial district, offers such topsy-turvy dishes like fried dough, mac ’n’ cheese fitters, and buffalo chicken rangoon. Best known for their award-winning wings, Coogan’s supplies their customers with the cheapest beers in town – $1 Bud Lights everyday! – and a good humored staff. Notorious for its hopping college bar scene by night, Coogan’s is the perfect place to socialize with educated individual within a modern not-too-overly-fancy interior.#8: Piattini
226 Newbury Street
While the North End of Boston is reserved only for the best and delicious Italian food in the city, you can still find an evenly matched Italian joint on Boston’s famed Newbury Street. Piattini is one of the few places outside of the North End that goes the extra mile in not only offering good authentic Italian food, but also willing to shape the taste buds of their very eager customers. As its name suggests, Piattini’s menu presents its patrons with small plates of flavorful Italian cuisine. And while each plate is diverse in its own tastes, it is the cafe’s wine selection that is the most tantalizing of all. Each glass of wine that is ordered is accompanied by a small card describing the type of wine and the wine’s origins. It’s small and intimate surroundings makes it easy to walk in to grab a quick bite to eat, or to spend an hour sampling the variety of wines. You might just even be tempted to take the whole bottle home with you afterwards. #7: The Custom House Observation Deck
3 McKinley Square
There is a certain thrill when it comes to living in any city. There’s the thrill of partying at all of the best nightclubs, there’s the thrill of experiencing all of the unique restaurants in your neighborhood, and then there’s the thrill of finding yourself above the city’s skylines. While almost everyone in Boston will tell you to check out either the Prudential Tower’s or the Hancock Tower’s Observation Deck, not many will mention the Custom House’s Observation Deck. Located a five minute walk away from Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market, the Custom House is now a part of the Marriott Hotel. You do not need to be a guest at the hotel to enjoy the splendid panoramic view of Downtown Boston from the tower’s 26th floor. Admission to gain access to the building’s historic clock tower is only $5! Solely available to the public twice a day (except Fridays) at 2 p.m. and 6 p.m. – and when the weather is in good condition – the observation deck looks out over Boston Harbor and the North End. For a place that offers visitors a charming cosmopolitan view, you definitely do not need to drop a load of cash to enjoy the amenities the Custom House has to offer. #6: Michele Topor’s Boston Food Tours
50 Salem Street
If you ever wanted to taste some of the best authentic Italian and Chinese ingredients in Boston, then Michele Topor is your guide. On her website, Boston Food Tours, Topor captures the small town atmosphere by offering outsiders on her tour an insider look at the history of several undiscovered restaurants in the North End and Chinatown. At nearly every stop on the tour, you’ll enjoy the small tastes of different Italian or Chinese foods and will get the sample wine and bubble tea along the way. To reserve a spot, you must go book in advance online and select one of the two time slots the tour has to offer (10 a.m. or 2 p.m.). And while tickets per person hikes up to $62.00, it is worth strolling the narrow streets of the city and being lured in by all of the aromas and delicious products that you’ll want to bring back home to your pantry.#5: Neptune Oyster House
63 Salem Street #1
In the mood for a good bowl of clam chowder – or “chowdah” as they say in Boston – or maybe some fired oysters, urchins or the freshest fishes from the market? Then the celebratory atmosphere of Neptune Oyster awaits you. Huddled amongst the North End’s historic Italian neighborhood, Neptune is the type of restaurant that you want to arrive hungry. Specializing in (you guessed it) East Coast oysters and seafood, this casual but sophisticated joint offers spectacular Main lobster rolls and a horseradish cocktail sauce that perfectly ignites flavor to any cool shuck oyster. However, when arriving to Neptune, expect at least an hour long wait. While Neptune’s no-reservation policy ensures crowds of people snaking around the block, it is absolutely worth standing in line.
#4: Maria’s Pastry Shop
46 Cross Street
If you’re a tourists, you would go to Mike’s Pastry. If you had lived in Boston for over a year, you would go to Modern Pastry. But, if you're a local Bostonian, you would go to Maria’s Pastry Shop for the best cannoli’s in the city. Family-run and operated since 1982, Maria’s Pastry Shop is the only place you should go for homemade, authentic Italian pastries. From cream-filled lobster tails, to crunchy cannoli shells, Maria’s Pastry Shop is the clear victor amongst the battle of the cannoli’s between Mike’s and Modern Pastry. But the best part about Maria’s Pastry – unlike the other two cannoli shops – is that there is no throng of people spilling out the doors and on to the sidewalks. Its lesser-known fame as the best cannoli spot in Boston makes Maria’s Pastry Shop a true hidden gem in the city. So if you’re craving for something sweet, and want to avoid the massive lines at Mike’s and Modern Pastry, walk into Maria’s Pastry Shop. It will without a doubt, make your day. #3: Dumpling Cafe
695 Washington Street
With a lengthy menu and good quality Chinese/Taiwanese food, Dumpling Cafe alone might just triumph over all of the Chinese restaurants in New York City. With perfect soup dumplings and amazing dim sum-style dishes, Dumpling Cafe offers its patrons the best mini steamed pork buns in town. Each dumpling comes stuffed to the brim with rich and sweet juices. You’ll want to eat these dumplings the traditional way in order to enjoy sucking out the hot broth from within. Located in the heart of Boston’s Chinatown district, Dumpling Cafe has everything for meat lovers and vegetarians alike. The building itself is small but quant, a cozy place to go out to dinner in the winter. And for the love of God, arrive with a big appetite. But be prepared. The portions on the menu are so large that you might have to take it all home with you. At least you’ll have some food stored away for the next couple of days if you order correctly. #2: The Paramount
667 E. Broadway
Craving a carmel and banana french toast to start off your day? Or how about a marinated grilled pork loin for lunch? These dishes are just a few named off from the exceptional menu at The Paramount. Located in South Boston, The Paramount is the perfect place to grab a bite whether its in the mornings for brunch or in the evenings for dinner. Whatever time you decide to pop in, you’ll always be surrounded by the aroma of food being freshly prepared within the comfortable atmosphere that The Paramount has to offer. Not only will you be greeted by the wonderful cuisine, but the staff as well are genuinely kind and caring to make sure that your experience is satisfactory. You’ll definitely feel at home once you walk through the doors. #1 Afternoon Tea at the Courtyard Restaurant
Boston Public Library
700 Boylston Street
What’s more fun that being surrounded by books? How about curling up with some afternoon tea? Because nothing says perfection like a good book and a nice warm cup of tea inside one of the most famous libraries in the United States. Located inside the Boston Public Library, you can order any choice of tea as you overlook the library’s Florentine style courtyard. For only $35, your afternoon tea experience will be consisted of finger sandwiches such as a classic cucumber and cream cheese, deviled chicken and smoked salmon options. In addition, you’ll also be presented with an array of different pastries and tea scones to make you feel like you’re a Jane Austen heroine. You’ll certainly develop a very serious tea addiction afterwards. Boston has a small city feel with big adventures. Although I am still new to the New England terrain, I am still discovering hidden bars and secluded restaurants. Hopefully in the next year I can officially call myself a Bostonian and stop using Google Maps to remind myself how to get to the Theater District. But until then, you’re only new to a city once. You’ll never be a newbie again until you’ve visited every nook and cranny that the city has to offer you. These may be the only 20 hidden gems that I could think of off the top of my head, but they certainly won’t be the last.
June 30, 2016
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In the meantime, enjoy these cute baby animal pictures: 
Bad Flatmates
I was talked into by my flatmates to accompany them to Biggleswade for Remembrance Day.
Two of my flatmates, Alice and Chloe lived in this town that sounded like the name I would give to a short-muzzled, tightly curled tailed pug – with the name "Wade" attached at the end.
We were at King's Cross Station, the six of us – Alice, Chloe, Mollie, Jon, Conor and me – to buy our train tickets.
My flatmate, and friend, Rachel was back home in Sunderland for the weekend. To be quite honest, I envied her a little bit. Not just because she was spending time with her family (while mine was an ocean and an entire continent away), but also because she didn't have to suffer with our flatmates.
It had already been three months since moving to London. I was entering my second weekend of November and feeling not so welcomed in this historic city, especially not by my three British female flatmates.
Besides Rachel, I had managed to make a handful of friends in England. On my first day of lectures at King's College London, I met Sofia for my Chaucer class. She had a wonderful accent, and shared my love for literature just as equally as me. In my Elizabethan Poetry class, a girl named Ally O spent a hour chatting me up. She was from Spain, and we exchanged writing tips to one another in between lectures. Then there was Jocelyn, who later became friends with both Sofia and I in our Victorian Literature class. She was studying abroad just for the fall semester from the University of Pennsylvania. Then from Jon’s Arcadia Study Abroad Group, I had gotten friendly, but not too close to a couple of students studying at King’s College London with me. Amy, Mel, Erica and Conor. Conor, was going to Biggleswade with us.
The only American who I was the closets to was my friend, Geena. She was a member of the Arcadia group and was studying abroad for a semester from Mount Holyoke College. This alone made us automatic friends. Before going abroad, Geena and I were never close. I knew her by name, and it was only when I recognized her at my apartment complex in London that our bond as Mount Holyoke sisters strengthened.
As we boarded the train to Biggleswade, I wished nothing more than to have either Geena or Rachel with me.
There’s no real nice way to write this, but my flatmates – except for Rachel – were bitches.
Even Jon, the only other male member living in our flat was a bonafide asshole.
In the months that I had lived with them, I had suddenly felt invisible.
Granted, because I can sometimes be egotistical, I did believe that before I arrived in London that I was going to be (as the kids call it these days) “hot shit.” And why wouldn’t I be? I was a American girl, studying abroad all the way in London, England from sunny California. I really did think that I was going to be a hot commodity. I thought all of my Mount Holyoke friends who were studying abroad our junior year were going to be hot commodities too.
But in truth, when I arrived at my apartment on Stanford Street, jet lagged and cranky as hell for only getting three hours of sleep on the plane, I wasn’t greeted with any “Oohh’s” and “Aahh’s” from neither Alice, nor Chloe and especially nothing from Mollie. I did get a lot of excitement when I first met Rachel’s mother helping her daughter move in. She introduced me to Rachel the instant she heard my American accent. I should have been over the moon, flattered even, that both Rachel and her mother greeted me with such warmth after leaving my parents behind for a full academic year. Except at that moment the jet lag really kicked in and I collapsed on top of my mattress when I found my dorm room.
Looking back, the only approval that I ever needed and wanted was only Rachel’s. But because the two of us were living with other people – people who we obviously didn’t like very much – we had to find a way to get along with them.
The first American that I had met once I napped for eight hours straight in my dorm room, was Jon.
First impressions can really throw you in a loop.
Remember when Elizabeth Bennet first met Wickham in Pride and Prejudice? It was like that. To refresh you memory, Elizabeth is with her sisters, Lydia and Kitty, when one of their officer friends introduces them to Mr. Wickham. Austen writes:
“[Mr. Wickham’s] appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming . . .”
This was what I first thought of Jon.
Most of my anxiety had left me when Jon introduced himself to me. Mainly because it meant that I wasn’t the only American living in this flat. I had a companion that I could reminisce about Kraft Mac ’n’ Cheese with. Someone who had visited Los Angeles and knew about Hollywood and Pink’s Hot Dogs. Someone who understood that there was no better feeling than sticking your hand down a bag of Goldfish, or opening a fresh pack of birthday frosting Oreos.
Unfortunately, talking about these nostalgic American pastimes, very quickly became a very boring topic. America, itself was the one and only thing that Jon and I had in common. While I immersed myself with books, Jon was studying music at King’s College London. He told me and the other flatmates that he was writing a musical.
“It’s a Canadian love story,” he told us as we sat around the round small blue table that we had in our shared kitchen. “Between a conservative and a liberal who are fighting to become the next Prime Minister."
He promptly pulled up TuneSmith on his computer and showed us the music and lyrics for this musical.
Alice, Chloe and Mollie pressed themselves next to him.
“How fascinating."
“Oh, you’re so talented."
“You American boys are just too clever."
It doesn’t matter who said what to Jon, because at this point in our living situation, I was keenly aware that my three British flatmates were all worshipping the ground Jon walked upon.
When I told them that I had published a YA novel, Chloe said “That’s cool. I don’t really read though.” And Alice said, “Oh, how nice” before gluing her eyes back to her iPad to read The Daily Mail. Mollie’s response – unlike Alice and Chloe’s mildly intrigued reply – was more suspicious. As if she couldn’t believe that someone like me took the time to write a 272 page novel. “Is that so? You actually sat down and wrote a novel? Was there nothing exciting happening in your life or something?”
Actually, yeah. My life was kinda boring which was why I started writing to begin with.
But I guess if you’re writing a Canadian musical, it must mean that you had some purpose in life.
Chloe and Alice had been best friends since high school and lived just a few doors down from each other in Biggleswade. So as you can imagine, every waking day was the Chloe and Alice show. They were such a unit that their classmates mixed them up, even though they looked nothing alike.
Chloe – the best and unfortunate true description that Rachel told me was – an English Rose. Even I admit, Chloe was very pretty. She had long light caramel colored hair, sun-kissed warm skin, big green eyes and round rosy cheeks. Alice, on the other hand was the polar opposite of her friend. While Chloe was taller than Alice and spoke with a smooth accent that almost sounded silky and perfect, Alice was less confident about her looks. She was mousey, with fading yellow hair, dry wall white skin and small cloudy blue eyes. Chloe always reminded Alice that she was balding at her scalp and that her left eyebrow didn’t have enough hair so it looked like she only had one brow. I had noticed that Alice was suppressed under Chloe’s shadow. But she never fought back against her friend. Instead she went along with Chloe’s comments about her bald spot and her thinly haired left eyebrow because Chloe had a knack for inviting some very good looking boys over to our flat to play beer pong. Chloe was her only source for meeting these boys, and she would laugh off every critical thing Chloe had to say to her if it meant having some of Chloe’s boy magnet magic rub off from her.
On day one of meeting Jon, they had sat on either side of him at the kitchen table trying to get him to settle an argument about if American men preferred watching football or baseball. I don’t remember Jon’s answer, except that whatever he said made Chloe and Alice laugh like hyenas.
Then there was Mollie. When I first met her, I thought she was older than me because she was so tall. But then I learned that I was older than her by three years and she was just a freshmen entering her first year at King’s College. She was enrolled in the same nursing program as Rachel at Guy’s Campus. Mollie – with a “IE” at the end instead of the standard “Y” – wasn’t too keen on me when we first met. Alice, Chloe and I were Oompa Loompa size compared to the giant that was Mollie. Everything about her was pale. Her skin was bleach white, her hair a platinum blond, and her eyes a washed out blue. When I finally did some shopping and bought myself a bowl, a dish, a pot and pan, all of the cabinet space above the skin was already taken up by Alice, Chloe and Mollie. Jon, luckily, was given special permission from Alice to share her cabinet space.
“Is there no more room in the cabinets?” I turned to Mollie who was cooking something on the stove.
“Nah. But we left you some room under the sink though,” she said stirring whatever was boiling in her pot.
“Under the sink?” I got down on my knees and opened the cabinet to see the empty two shelves in front of me. “This should be storage."
“Yeah I know.” Mollie said without looking at me.
“No, I mean storage for cleaning supplies,” I said. “Like for the sink and the stove."
“Well it’s the only free space that’s left. Do you want it or not?"
I should have done what Rachel did and just leave all of my cooking supplies in my room. At least I had enough room in my dorm to store things like my pots and pans. But I also wanted my pots and pans to be conveniently located in the kitchen. After all, that’s where the pots and pans belong.
I took the space under the sink. Reluctantly, of course. So whenever I needed to use one of my cooking tools, either Alice, Chloe, Mollie or Jon would be at the sink, washing their dishes. This turned into, “Can Jacqueline retrieve her pot under the sink without Chloe lapping water on top of her?” For my first semester under the sink, I was pretty successful at avoiding all of the soap and water from the skin whenever someone would be using it. Although with Mollie, I just waited until she was done washing her dishes in the sink. I knew she would “accidentally” spill dish water on me if I was on my knees pulling one of my kitchen items out. Especially when Jon was in the room.
I made the first mistake of pulling something out from my sink cabinet while Mollie was doing the dishes. Jon was actually asking me a question about California as I pulled out my pot to make pasta. He wanted to know how close Pasadena was from San Diego when I felt something cold and wet running down from my scalp over my eyes. The front of my head was completely soaked and I looked up to find Mollie washing a large stainless steel pasta spoon at the skin.
“Whoops,” she shrugged before turning off the faucet to dry off the spoon. “You should probably wait your turn next time if you don’t want end up in the splash zone."
While Chloe obsessed over boys, and Alice obsessed over being just like Chloe, Mollie was obsessed over taking anyone down who held Jon’s attention for longer than a minute. When Mollie met Alice and Chloe, they got along right away – mainly because they all secretly had one huge crush on Jon – and from then on it was like Jon had his own entourage of British girls hanging on her every word.
It even got to the point when Alice, Chloe and Mollie – AKA the Three Stooges, as Rachel and I later secretly nicknamed them – chipped in enough money to make Jon dinner. DINNER! Three British girls were taking the time to feed him!
Rachel and I couldn’t believe it.
“Why are they even doing this?” I turned to Rachel one evening when the Three Stooges and Jon all decided to take a stroll around Somerset House without inviting us. “It’s not like they’re going to get anything out of this! He has a girlfriend!"
And this is what made me angry at Jon to begin with. Jon had a girlfriend back in New York named Julia. Before going abroad, both Jon and Julia decided to put their relationship on hold. Apparently, a lot of the boys from Northwestern did this. They had girlfriends back home but decided to either take a break or just split up while they went dilly-daddling in London. Conor told me that he and his girlfriend mutually agreed to take a break when he told her that he would be abroad for a semester. In a way, I felt torn about this decision, of men putting their girlfriends aside – or breaking up – just to be single in London for a short period of time.
On the one hand, I understood this decision, especially if it was a mutual agreement like Conor and his girlfriend. I get how fun single life could be, and in a foreign country with foreign people. You meet so many different kinds of personality outside of America. Yet, if you were tied down to someone, you couldn’t go on Tinder and meet some European for a one-night-stand. Because you knew that you had to be loyal to your significant other back home. And maybe your significant other wants you to have a good (single) time abroad, and agrees to give you a break because they care about your happiness as you travel. Although, there were also plenty of American boys who were in long-term relationships, and didn’t formally say they were breaking up with their girlfriends, but went on sleeping with one of two British women anyway.
However, in retrospect, this is also a really shitty move. I mean, just think about it. You have a girlfriend that you take the time to cultivate a relationship with and then you decide to go abroad. And after years of building this relationship, you ask your significant other to take a break because you want to be single again in Europe.
I saw this as boys shelving their girlfriends away until they returned to pick things up as they left them. Because what? Being single again to sleep with as many European girls as you want was more important than the significant other you spent the most time with?
I wasn’t sure I could do that. I wasn’t sure I would be able to be okay with my boyfriend going abroad and agreeing to “take a break.” Sure I would want him to have fun, but does that fun consist of being single so that he could feel guilt-free if he found someone else? Even if it was nothing serious? Even if it was just a one-night-stand? I don’t think I could bare to think of him with someone else who wasn’t me. Maybe that’s just my “girly feelings” talking but it’s true. Because that’s the blessing Conor’s girlfriend left him, that was the blessing many girls who were back in America gave to their significant others as they waited for them come home. To be guilt-free. To not feel bad if they decided to sleep with someone else. To be forgiven by those girls when the fun did end and the semester abroad was over. That’s just the reality.
So Jon and Julia were on a break while Jon was abroad. Which meant Jon was fair game. However, after several days living the single life in London, it suddenly hit Jon that he didn’t like this break he and Julia had found themselves in. Before either one of the Three Stooges could pounce on him, Jon had announced to us that he and Julia were officially back together. You would think this news would at least send a message to The Three Stooges to back off, just a little. But they didn’t. And Jon didn’t tell them to stop either.
Whenever one of Three Stooges would touch Jon affectionately he wouldn’t brush them off. If either Alice or Chloe wanted to hold hands with him, he wouldn’t question it. In response to the attention Jon was receiving from our British flatmates he would reward them with his presence. Once, all four of them went off together to a taping of The Graham Norton Show (without inviting Rachel and I). Then another time all four of them left the apartment to go to a nearby pub (without inviting Rachel and I). And another time – and this one really pissed me off – all four of them decided to go ice skating at Somerset House (without inviting Rachel and I). This escapade with The Three Stooges and Jon really took the cake because I CLEARLY ANNOUNCED to my flatmates that maybe as a flat we could do a fun activity together and buy tickets to ice stake at Somerset House. This was back when I still held on to some small thread of hope that maybe we could all just get along. Instead, Jon and the Three Stooges had bought their tickets without informing Rachel and I the plan, and the four of them went off anyway. What sucked more, was that that was the last day the ice rink would be open at Somerset House for the entire winter. So not only were Rachel and I jacked out from staking with out entire flat, but we had missed staking at Somerset House all together.
Yeah. I was hella mad.
After a 30 minute train ride from King’s Cross Station to the town of Biggleswade, the Three Stooges, Jon, Conor and I had arrived for the Remembrance Day Ceremony in the town.
Rachel had explained to me that Remembrance Day was like the US’s version of Veteran’s Day. It was a memorial day to remember the members of the armed forces who had died in the line of duty during the First World War. Everyone was wearing a red poppy on their lapels as I stood with my flatmates and Conor to the side of the road to watch the Remembrance Day parade. Holly, the friendly receptionist at the Stanford Street Apartments had bought me my paper poppy to wear to Biggleswade before I left. I tried to remember the last time I was at a memorial service this quiet and serious for the fallen soldiers during the war, but all I could think of was how far away my grandparents were buried back in California. So far away, and they were buried in such a beautiful place. As grim as this ceremony was, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was at Forest Lawn in California. On the the green hill my grandparents who fought and served in the Second World War were laid to rest. But when I opened my eyes I was back in Biggleswade, England under the overcast gray sky.
“Let’s do something fun,” Alice turned to us when the ceremony was over.
“Like what?” Conor asked her.
“Oh, I was thinking taking a quick trip down to Cambridgeshire,” Alice’s voice hiked up another octave whenever she spoke to Conor.
Conor was an interesting character. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t hate him either compared to the other boys who came from Northwestern with Jon. He was just there. And whenever we were in the same room we kind of acknowledged each other, which – compared to the Three Stooges – I actually really appreciated. At least with Conor he didn’t pretend I was invisible and I think it was because I had something he didn’t have: California bragging rights.
Back in his hometown of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Conor was an actor. A good one actually. Good enough to get me thinking if he was really trying to be my friend or just acting. Anyway, he played an extra in The Perks of Being a Wallflower and Me Earl and the Dying Girl. He showed me pictures on his phone meeting Paul Rudd and Aaron Paul. He had his own IMDB page and was hoping to make it big in Los Angeles one day.
And guess who was the only girl attending King’s College straight from Southern California: This gal.
Conor and I bonded over things like In-n-Out Burger (and how much we desperately missed it) the palm trees, and if I knew anyone in the movie/TV business. Because obviously, George Clooney is my next door neighbor. Although, the truth was that yes, I knew people at Paramount and Warner Brothers, but I didn’t go into great detail with him about my connections.
What made me like Conor – just a little bit – was the fact that he didn’t bullshit with me. He didn’t try to beat around the bush and was directly honest. That’s pretty much the only reason why I liked him enough to be my friend. However, he was also a bit of a sleeze. Particularly with Alice. Not that I cared, but I did notice what he was doing.
Conor originally wanted to get together with Chloe, and I mean who could blame him, she is after all pretty. But Chloe was too busy flirting with Jon and asking him all these American questions that I knew all the answers to. So while Chloe was distracted by Jon, Conor decided to move on to his second choice which was Alice.
The two of them had tipsily made out when we all went out to Piccadilly Circus, followed by Alice inviting Conor back to her room. Alice was sure this was proof of Conor’s feelings for her, despite that Conor obviously wanted to get together with Chloe badly. Alice had tried to keep things going with Conor – finally thinking that she found a boy who only saw her instead of Chloe – but Conor reverted to treating Alice the way he treated me: Totally platonic.
Alice, however, was unaware of Conor’s feelings for Chloe. And honestly, a part of me felt bad for Alice.
Between the Three Stooges, Rachel and I actually liked Alice a little bit more compared to Chloe and Mollie. One of Alice’s redeeming qualities when she wasn’t stalking boys on Facebook, was remembering people’s birthdays. The day before Rachel’s birthday, she went around our flat to collect money to buy Rachel a cake. And sure enough, we surprised Rachel with a cute chocolate caterpillar cake for her birthday. The kitchen was decorated with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banners and balloons. Alice planned the whole thing. It was a really nice gesture.
We took two cars to Cambridgeshire.
I was in a car with Mollie and Alice while Chloe took her car and drove with the boys.
“Do you think he still likes me?” Alice was asking Mollie about Conor as I sat in the backseat. It was so weird watching someone drive on the opposite side of the road. It freaked me out that the steering wheel was on the right side instead of the left. I felt too cramped in one area so I decided to just sit in the middle.
“I mean, yes of course,” Mollie replied. “I just think he need to sort things out with his former girlfriend from home is all."
“You think so? Have you seen what she looks like? Is she prettier than me?"
As Alice listed off all of the possible questions she had to Mollie about Conor, I part of me really did pity Alice for being so insecure about herself. The problem wasn’t that these insecurities steamed from within, but from Chloe who constantly reminded Alice where her place was in their friendship. If it wasn’t for Chloe, Alice might have been a better flatmate, let alone a better person.
I had seen enough TV shows and movies, and had read enough books to know that relationships like the one Alice and Chloe had was toxic. Rachel and I had noticed this. As a nurse, Rachel was able to perfectly dissect and label all of the emotional abuse Chloe was giving Alice, like naming all of the bones in a hand.
The rest of the entire drive was emotional. At least for Alice. I glad that the sun had come out, saturating the bright green of the fields as we entered the town of Cambridgeshire.
Alice and Chloe parked their cars at a lot and we boarded a bus that zigzagged through the narrow streets of the university town. While Alice desperately tried to reclaim some of Conor’s attention back, I tried not to think about how totally screwed up my flat was. Jon had a girlfriend but was enjoying the benefits of getting pampered by the Three Stooges. Alice wanted Conor. Conor wanted Chloe. Chloe wanted Jon. Mollie wanted Jon. And I hated that Jon was getting more attention than me.
I even hated the Three Stooges a little bit because they asked all of the cool American questions to Jon instead of the obvious other American who lived with them. I knew it was just because they wanted to bask in Jon’s divine attention and to hear his manly American accent, but it also made me feel not just mad, but worthless.
I added in my angry emotional stew to the powder keg of all of my flatmates and wondered if this was going to end well. It probably wasn’t. Rachel and I already knew that, so the two of us would have to stay as far away from the explosion as possible if the Three Stooges started fighting over Jon. The plan was to just keep my head down and let the chaos find its own way out.
The bus dropped us off in front of Cambridge University. The site of the historic school suddenly made me feel relaxed. In between the light golden brown structures were large spaces of green. It felt like an open campus compared to the constraint, tight environment of King’s College London. We walked over to the the docks of the River Cam and Jon immediately rushed over to the boats that were harbored.
“Anyone fancy a punt around the river bend?” He asked us.
I had no idea what he was talking about, until Conor and all of my flatmates agreed to go “punting.” We followed Jon’s bee-line to the boathouse as he asked the man behind the counter to take a boat out for a spin.
“Have you ever punted before, sir?” the man asked Jon.
“Of course I have,” Jon said, although I had a strange feeling that he really didn’t.
The man gave Jon an unimpressed look and I knew what this man was thinking: You mean to tell me that this American idiot knows how to punt a boat?
“Very well. If you say so. You get the boat for an hour. That will be £36."
Conor offered to pay the £36 on his credit card, and he told us to pay him back later.
“What a gentleman,” Alice singsonged as she hooked her arm around Conor and then turned to Chloe. “The Americans today really know how to treat us right."
“Yeah . . .” I mumbled unconvincingly, noticing how she left me – the other American – out.
“You sure know how to do this?” Mollie turned to Jon as we loaded up in the boat. It reminded me of a fallen bookcase as Mollie and I sat next to to each other. The edge of the boat was too close to the water that I feared anymore weight would push the boat down and fill it up. Alice and Chloe sat opposite of us and Conor sat behind Mollie and I. Jon was standing at the back of the ship. The man at the boathouse had handed Jon a punting stick and wished him luck.
“Yeah, how hard can it be?” Jon replied. He pushed the heavy stick down to the bottom of the lake and pushed us out from the dock and onto the river.
To Jon’s credit, he actually started off okay, until the bottom of the river grew too deep for Jon’s stick to reach the bottom to push us off. So we were left bobbing up the river, floating underneath the gothic bridges and drifting past the grand castle-like entrance of Cambridge University.
Was I having fun yet? Not really. I was having a grand old time though watching Jon struggle with his punting stick in the water. Chloe even wanted a turn with the stick and she and Jon traded places. Conor had moved in between Mollie and I to get a better look at Chloe’s punting skills. She was pretty much just as poor as Jon was, if not worse.
“It’s nice to see my £36 be applied to something useful,” Conor half-joked.
“I can do it!” Alice instantly stood up, rocking the boat that I seriously almost believed I was going to fall right into the River Cam. “Here Chloe, let me take over."
“No, sit back down I got this.” Chloe said looking at Jon.
“Chloe, you had your turn with the stick. Now give it here!” Alice was now begging Chloe.
But Chloe started to laugh at her friend. “Oh, really Alice. With your height, and your weight you’ll never be able to move this boat."
“What do you know about my weight and height, I can move this boat if you just give me the stick."
I could hear the frustration growing in her voice, and I could feel Conor’s eyes on Chloe with the stick.
“Alice stop being so immature. Sit back down. I told you I got this."
“CHLOE! GIVE ME THE FUCKING STICK RIGHT NOW!” Alice screamed.
The river suddenly sounded very quiet. Conor, Mollie, Jon and I just stared at Alice and Chloe, wondering if someone would be pushed overboard.
But instead of handing Alice the stick, Chloe looked at Jon.
“Jon, why don’t you punt us back to shore. I think we’ve had enough on the river."
Without question, Alice sat her herself back down in the boat as Jon took the stick from Chloe. Chloe said nothing as she sat next to her friend.
It took Jon 20 minutes to punt us back to shore.
“Back so soon,” the man at the boathouse shook his head.
Nobody said anything. Until we were away from the river, Mollie suggested that we go inside a pub to grab a pint to cool ourselves. I decided to join them later. I wanted to get a Cambridge University sweatshirt for my mom. I watched my flatmates and Conor enter a pub that was next door to the Cambridge University school shop. I was so relieved to get out from that boat and to be away from my flatmates. As I browsed through the different sweatshirts with the Cambridge emblem, I tried to forget the first real spark that Rachel and I knew would ignite our flat. Tensions would rise between Alice and Chloe. Mollie will either be caught in the middle or join a side. And Jon? Jon got the better end of the deal. He was only abroad for a semester. At least both Rachel and I were looking forward to when he leaves. We figured that he was the main reason for all this building tension.
Eventually, I settled on a nice maroon Cambridge sweatshirt for myself and a dark blue zip-up for my mother.
I didn’t immediately head back to the pub after my purchase. Instead, I pretended to be interested in one of the the blue and white Cambridge hats on display.
How did it come to this? I kept asking myself. How did it come to me avoiding my own flatmates?
Maybe I trusted my Mount Holyoke instincts too much. Maybe I was just spoiled for being enrolled at school where everyone was just naturally nice and approachable. Here I was, thinking that I could have that same connection at King’s College London.
But I also realized something.
My British flatmates, were also just kids, straight out from high school. They didn’t know what the freshmen 15 was nor the sophomore slump. They hadn’t even gone abroad yet. In a way, my flatmates were like me when I first arrived to Mount Holyoke: overly enthusiastic, and feeling like the “Big Man on Campus.” I was like them once, long ago.
The more I thought about it, the less angry I felt. Yes, Rachel and I would have to put up with them for the rest of the year – which wasn’t easy – but as I was standing in that shop in Cambridge, I felt a wave of pity for them. Even Jon. Mainly because (as I was smiling to myself) he would never have three British girls follow him around to serve him again once he left to return to the states. Instead, he would go back to Northwestern to his boring life and boring girlfriend. So, fine.
I would even try and think good thoughts to Mollie, Alice and Chloe.
I would hope that Alice learned to appreciate herself, and to remove herself from under Chloe’s shadow.
I would hope that Chloe would be patient and understanding to others who maybe were not as put together nor as confident as her.
And I would even hope that Mollie found some shred of happiness against her prickly outer shell.
So before I stepped outside, I thought about these redeeming possibilities. With some slight optimism, I left the shop to join my flatmates at the pub.
Two of my flatmates, Alice and Chloe lived in this town that sounded like the name I would give to a short-muzzled, tightly curled tailed pug – with the name "Wade" attached at the end.
We were at King's Cross Station, the six of us – Alice, Chloe, Mollie, Jon, Conor and me – to buy our train tickets.
My flatmate, and friend, Rachel was back home in Sunderland for the weekend. To be quite honest, I envied her a little bit. Not just because she was spending time with her family (while mine was an ocean and an entire continent away), but also because she didn't have to suffer with our flatmates.
It had already been three months since moving to London. I was entering my second weekend of November and feeling not so welcomed in this historic city, especially not by my three British female flatmates.
Besides Rachel, I had managed to make a handful of friends in England. On my first day of lectures at King's College London, I met Sofia for my Chaucer class. She had a wonderful accent, and shared my love for literature just as equally as me. In my Elizabethan Poetry class, a girl named Ally O spent a hour chatting me up. She was from Spain, and we exchanged writing tips to one another in between lectures. Then there was Jocelyn, who later became friends with both Sofia and I in our Victorian Literature class. She was studying abroad just for the fall semester from the University of Pennsylvania. Then from Jon’s Arcadia Study Abroad Group, I had gotten friendly, but not too close to a couple of students studying at King’s College London with me. Amy, Mel, Erica and Conor. Conor, was going to Biggleswade with us.
The only American who I was the closets to was my friend, Geena. She was a member of the Arcadia group and was studying abroad for a semester from Mount Holyoke College. This alone made us automatic friends. Before going abroad, Geena and I were never close. I knew her by name, and it was only when I recognized her at my apartment complex in London that our bond as Mount Holyoke sisters strengthened.
As we boarded the train to Biggleswade, I wished nothing more than to have either Geena or Rachel with me.
There’s no real nice way to write this, but my flatmates – except for Rachel – were bitches. Even Jon, the only other male member living in our flat was a bonafide asshole.
In the months that I had lived with them, I had suddenly felt invisible.
Granted, because I can sometimes be egotistical, I did believe that before I arrived in London that I was going to be (as the kids call it these days) “hot shit.” And why wouldn’t I be? I was a American girl, studying abroad all the way in London, England from sunny California. I really did think that I was going to be a hot commodity. I thought all of my Mount Holyoke friends who were studying abroad our junior year were going to be hot commodities too.
But in truth, when I arrived at my apartment on Stanford Street, jet lagged and cranky as hell for only getting three hours of sleep on the plane, I wasn’t greeted with any “Oohh’s” and “Aahh’s” from neither Alice, nor Chloe and especially nothing from Mollie. I did get a lot of excitement when I first met Rachel’s mother helping her daughter move in. She introduced me to Rachel the instant she heard my American accent. I should have been over the moon, flattered even, that both Rachel and her mother greeted me with such warmth after leaving my parents behind for a full academic year. Except at that moment the jet lag really kicked in and I collapsed on top of my mattress when I found my dorm room.
Looking back, the only approval that I ever needed and wanted was only Rachel’s. But because the two of us were living with other people – people who we obviously didn’t like very much – we had to find a way to get along with them.
The first American that I had met once I napped for eight hours straight in my dorm room, was Jon. First impressions can really throw you in a loop.
Remember when Elizabeth Bennet first met Wickham in Pride and Prejudice? It was like that. To refresh you memory, Elizabeth is with her sisters, Lydia and Kitty, when one of their officer friends introduces them to Mr. Wickham. Austen writes:
“[Mr. Wickham’s] appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming . . .”
This was what I first thought of Jon.
Most of my anxiety had left me when Jon introduced himself to me. Mainly because it meant that I wasn’t the only American living in this flat. I had a companion that I could reminisce about Kraft Mac ’n’ Cheese with. Someone who had visited Los Angeles and knew about Hollywood and Pink’s Hot Dogs. Someone who understood that there was no better feeling than sticking your hand down a bag of Goldfish, or opening a fresh pack of birthday frosting Oreos.
Unfortunately, talking about these nostalgic American pastimes, very quickly became a very boring topic. America, itself was the one and only thing that Jon and I had in common. While I immersed myself with books, Jon was studying music at King’s College London. He told me and the other flatmates that he was writing a musical.
“It’s a Canadian love story,” he told us as we sat around the round small blue table that we had in our shared kitchen. “Between a conservative and a liberal who are fighting to become the next Prime Minister."
He promptly pulled up TuneSmith on his computer and showed us the music and lyrics for this musical.
Alice, Chloe and Mollie pressed themselves next to him.
“How fascinating."
“Oh, you’re so talented."
“You American boys are just too clever."
It doesn’t matter who said what to Jon, because at this point in our living situation, I was keenly aware that my three British flatmates were all worshipping the ground Jon walked upon.
When I told them that I had published a YA novel, Chloe said “That’s cool. I don’t really read though.” And Alice said, “Oh, how nice” before gluing her eyes back to her iPad to read The Daily Mail. Mollie’s response – unlike Alice and Chloe’s mildly intrigued reply – was more suspicious. As if she couldn’t believe that someone like me took the time to write a 272 page novel. “Is that so? You actually sat down and wrote a novel? Was there nothing exciting happening in your life or something?”
Actually, yeah. My life was kinda boring which was why I started writing to begin with.
But I guess if you’re writing a Canadian musical, it must mean that you had some purpose in life.
Chloe and Alice had been best friends since high school and lived just a few doors down from each other in Biggleswade. So as you can imagine, every waking day was the Chloe and Alice show. They were such a unit that their classmates mixed them up, even though they looked nothing alike.Chloe – the best and unfortunate true description that Rachel told me was – an English Rose. Even I admit, Chloe was very pretty. She had long light caramel colored hair, sun-kissed warm skin, big green eyes and round rosy cheeks. Alice, on the other hand was the polar opposite of her friend. While Chloe was taller than Alice and spoke with a smooth accent that almost sounded silky and perfect, Alice was less confident about her looks. She was mousey, with fading yellow hair, dry wall white skin and small cloudy blue eyes. Chloe always reminded Alice that she was balding at her scalp and that her left eyebrow didn’t have enough hair so it looked like she only had one brow. I had noticed that Alice was suppressed under Chloe’s shadow. But she never fought back against her friend. Instead she went along with Chloe’s comments about her bald spot and her thinly haired left eyebrow because Chloe had a knack for inviting some very good looking boys over to our flat to play beer pong. Chloe was her only source for meeting these boys, and she would laugh off every critical thing Chloe had to say to her if it meant having some of Chloe’s boy magnet magic rub off from her.
On day one of meeting Jon, they had sat on either side of him at the kitchen table trying to get him to settle an argument about if American men preferred watching football or baseball. I don’t remember Jon’s answer, except that whatever he said made Chloe and Alice laugh like hyenas.
Then there was Mollie. When I first met her, I thought she was older than me because she was so tall. But then I learned that I was older than her by three years and she was just a freshmen entering her first year at King’s College. She was enrolled in the same nursing program as Rachel at Guy’s Campus. Mollie – with a “IE” at the end instead of the standard “Y” – wasn’t too keen on me when we first met. Alice, Chloe and I were Oompa Loompa size compared to the giant that was Mollie. Everything about her was pale. Her skin was bleach white, her hair a platinum blond, and her eyes a washed out blue. When I finally did some shopping and bought myself a bowl, a dish, a pot and pan, all of the cabinet space above the skin was already taken up by Alice, Chloe and Mollie. Jon, luckily, was given special permission from Alice to share her cabinet space.
“Is there no more room in the cabinets?” I turned to Mollie who was cooking something on the stove.
“Nah. But we left you some room under the sink though,” she said stirring whatever was boiling in her pot.
“Under the sink?” I got down on my knees and opened the cabinet to see the empty two shelves in front of me. “This should be storage."
“Yeah I know.” Mollie said without looking at me.
“No, I mean storage for cleaning supplies,” I said. “Like for the sink and the stove."
“Well it’s the only free space that’s left. Do you want it or not?"
I should have done what Rachel did and just leave all of my cooking supplies in my room. At least I had enough room in my dorm to store things like my pots and pans. But I also wanted my pots and pans to be conveniently located in the kitchen. After all, that’s where the pots and pans belong.
I took the space under the sink. Reluctantly, of course. So whenever I needed to use one of my cooking tools, either Alice, Chloe, Mollie or Jon would be at the sink, washing their dishes. This turned into, “Can Jacqueline retrieve her pot under the sink without Chloe lapping water on top of her?” For my first semester under the sink, I was pretty successful at avoiding all of the soap and water from the skin whenever someone would be using it. Although with Mollie, I just waited until she was done washing her dishes in the sink. I knew she would “accidentally” spill dish water on me if I was on my knees pulling one of my kitchen items out. Especially when Jon was in the room.
I made the first mistake of pulling something out from my sink cabinet while Mollie was doing the dishes. Jon was actually asking me a question about California as I pulled out my pot to make pasta. He wanted to know how close Pasadena was from San Diego when I felt something cold and wet running down from my scalp over my eyes. The front of my head was completely soaked and I looked up to find Mollie washing a large stainless steel pasta spoon at the skin.
“Whoops,” she shrugged before turning off the faucet to dry off the spoon. “You should probably wait your turn next time if you don’t want end up in the splash zone."
While Chloe obsessed over boys, and Alice obsessed over being just like Chloe, Mollie was obsessed over taking anyone down who held Jon’s attention for longer than a minute. When Mollie met Alice and Chloe, they got along right away – mainly because they all secretly had one huge crush on Jon – and from then on it was like Jon had his own entourage of British girls hanging on her every word.
It even got to the point when Alice, Chloe and Mollie – AKA the Three Stooges, as Rachel and I later secretly nicknamed them – chipped in enough money to make Jon dinner. DINNER! Three British girls were taking the time to feed him! Rachel and I couldn’t believe it.
“Why are they even doing this?” I turned to Rachel one evening when the Three Stooges and Jon all decided to take a stroll around Somerset House without inviting us. “It’s not like they’re going to get anything out of this! He has a girlfriend!"
And this is what made me angry at Jon to begin with. Jon had a girlfriend back in New York named Julia. Before going abroad, both Jon and Julia decided to put their relationship on hold. Apparently, a lot of the boys from Northwestern did this. They had girlfriends back home but decided to either take a break or just split up while they went dilly-daddling in London. Conor told me that he and his girlfriend mutually agreed to take a break when he told her that he would be abroad for a semester. In a way, I felt torn about this decision, of men putting their girlfriends aside – or breaking up – just to be single in London for a short period of time.
On the one hand, I understood this decision, especially if it was a mutual agreement like Conor and his girlfriend. I get how fun single life could be, and in a foreign country with foreign people. You meet so many different kinds of personality outside of America. Yet, if you were tied down to someone, you couldn’t go on Tinder and meet some European for a one-night-stand. Because you knew that you had to be loyal to your significant other back home. And maybe your significant other wants you to have a good (single) time abroad, and agrees to give you a break because they care about your happiness as you travel. Although, there were also plenty of American boys who were in long-term relationships, and didn’t formally say they were breaking up with their girlfriends, but went on sleeping with one of two British women anyway.
However, in retrospect, this is also a really shitty move. I mean, just think about it. You have a girlfriend that you take the time to cultivate a relationship with and then you decide to go abroad. And after years of building this relationship, you ask your significant other to take a break because you want to be single again in Europe.
I saw this as boys shelving their girlfriends away until they returned to pick things up as they left them. Because what? Being single again to sleep with as many European girls as you want was more important than the significant other you spent the most time with?
I wasn’t sure I could do that. I wasn’t sure I would be able to be okay with my boyfriend going abroad and agreeing to “take a break.” Sure I would want him to have fun, but does that fun consist of being single so that he could feel guilt-free if he found someone else? Even if it was nothing serious? Even if it was just a one-night-stand? I don’t think I could bare to think of him with someone else who wasn’t me. Maybe that’s just my “girly feelings” talking but it’s true. Because that’s the blessing Conor’s girlfriend left him, that was the blessing many girls who were back in America gave to their significant others as they waited for them come home. To be guilt-free. To not feel bad if they decided to sleep with someone else. To be forgiven by those girls when the fun did end and the semester abroad was over. That’s just the reality.
So Jon and Julia were on a break while Jon was abroad. Which meant Jon was fair game. However, after several days living the single life in London, it suddenly hit Jon that he didn’t like this break he and Julia had found themselves in. Before either one of the Three Stooges could pounce on him, Jon had announced to us that he and Julia were officially back together. You would think this news would at least send a message to The Three Stooges to back off, just a little. But they didn’t. And Jon didn’t tell them to stop either.
Whenever one of Three Stooges would touch Jon affectionately he wouldn’t brush them off. If either Alice or Chloe wanted to hold hands with him, he wouldn’t question it. In response to the attention Jon was receiving from our British flatmates he would reward them with his presence. Once, all four of them went off together to a taping of The Graham Norton Show (without inviting Rachel and I). Then another time all four of them left the apartment to go to a nearby pub (without inviting Rachel and I). And another time – and this one really pissed me off – all four of them decided to go ice skating at Somerset House (without inviting Rachel and I). This escapade with The Three Stooges and Jon really took the cake because I CLEARLY ANNOUNCED to my flatmates that maybe as a flat we could do a fun activity together and buy tickets to ice stake at Somerset House. This was back when I still held on to some small thread of hope that maybe we could all just get along. Instead, Jon and the Three Stooges had bought their tickets without informing Rachel and I the plan, and the four of them went off anyway. What sucked more, was that that was the last day the ice rink would be open at Somerset House for the entire winter. So not only were Rachel and I jacked out from staking with out entire flat, but we had missed staking at Somerset House all together.
Yeah. I was hella mad.
After a 30 minute train ride from King’s Cross Station to the town of Biggleswade, the Three Stooges, Jon, Conor and I had arrived for the Remembrance Day Ceremony in the town. Rachel had explained to me that Remembrance Day was like the US’s version of Veteran’s Day. It was a memorial day to remember the members of the armed forces who had died in the line of duty during the First World War. Everyone was wearing a red poppy on their lapels as I stood with my flatmates and Conor to the side of the road to watch the Remembrance Day parade. Holly, the friendly receptionist at the Stanford Street Apartments had bought me my paper poppy to wear to Biggleswade before I left. I tried to remember the last time I was at a memorial service this quiet and serious for the fallen soldiers during the war, but all I could think of was how far away my grandparents were buried back in California. So far away, and they were buried in such a beautiful place. As grim as this ceremony was, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was at Forest Lawn in California. On the the green hill my grandparents who fought and served in the Second World War were laid to rest. But when I opened my eyes I was back in Biggleswade, England under the overcast gray sky.
“Let’s do something fun,” Alice turned to us when the ceremony was over.
“Like what?” Conor asked her.
“Oh, I was thinking taking a quick trip down to Cambridgeshire,” Alice’s voice hiked up another octave whenever she spoke to Conor.
Conor was an interesting character. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t hate him either compared to the other boys who came from Northwestern with Jon. He was just there. And whenever we were in the same room we kind of acknowledged each other, which – compared to the Three Stooges – I actually really appreciated. At least with Conor he didn’t pretend I was invisible and I think it was because I had something he didn’t have: California bragging rights.
Back in his hometown of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Conor was an actor. A good one actually. Good enough to get me thinking if he was really trying to be my friend or just acting. Anyway, he played an extra in The Perks of Being a Wallflower and Me Earl and the Dying Girl. He showed me pictures on his phone meeting Paul Rudd and Aaron Paul. He had his own IMDB page and was hoping to make it big in Los Angeles one day.
And guess who was the only girl attending King’s College straight from Southern California: This gal.
Conor and I bonded over things like In-n-Out Burger (and how much we desperately missed it) the palm trees, and if I knew anyone in the movie/TV business. Because obviously, George Clooney is my next door neighbor. Although, the truth was that yes, I knew people at Paramount and Warner Brothers, but I didn’t go into great detail with him about my connections.
What made me like Conor – just a little bit – was the fact that he didn’t bullshit with me. He didn’t try to beat around the bush and was directly honest. That’s pretty much the only reason why I liked him enough to be my friend. However, he was also a bit of a sleeze. Particularly with Alice. Not that I cared, but I did notice what he was doing.
Conor originally wanted to get together with Chloe, and I mean who could blame him, she is after all pretty. But Chloe was too busy flirting with Jon and asking him all these American questions that I knew all the answers to. So while Chloe was distracted by Jon, Conor decided to move on to his second choice which was Alice.
The two of them had tipsily made out when we all went out to Piccadilly Circus, followed by Alice inviting Conor back to her room. Alice was sure this was proof of Conor’s feelings for her, despite that Conor obviously wanted to get together with Chloe badly. Alice had tried to keep things going with Conor – finally thinking that she found a boy who only saw her instead of Chloe – but Conor reverted to treating Alice the way he treated me: Totally platonic.
Alice, however, was unaware of Conor’s feelings for Chloe. And honestly, a part of me felt bad for Alice.
Between the Three Stooges, Rachel and I actually liked Alice a little bit more compared to Chloe and Mollie. One of Alice’s redeeming qualities when she wasn’t stalking boys on Facebook, was remembering people’s birthdays. The day before Rachel’s birthday, she went around our flat to collect money to buy Rachel a cake. And sure enough, we surprised Rachel with a cute chocolate caterpillar cake for her birthday. The kitchen was decorated with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banners and balloons. Alice planned the whole thing. It was a really nice gesture.
We took two cars to Cambridgeshire.I was in a car with Mollie and Alice while Chloe took her car and drove with the boys.
“Do you think he still likes me?” Alice was asking Mollie about Conor as I sat in the backseat. It was so weird watching someone drive on the opposite side of the road. It freaked me out that the steering wheel was on the right side instead of the left. I felt too cramped in one area so I decided to just sit in the middle.
“I mean, yes of course,” Mollie replied. “I just think he need to sort things out with his former girlfriend from home is all."
“You think so? Have you seen what she looks like? Is she prettier than me?"
As Alice listed off all of the possible questions she had to Mollie about Conor, I part of me really did pity Alice for being so insecure about herself. The problem wasn’t that these insecurities steamed from within, but from Chloe who constantly reminded Alice where her place was in their friendship. If it wasn’t for Chloe, Alice might have been a better flatmate, let alone a better person.
I had seen enough TV shows and movies, and had read enough books to know that relationships like the one Alice and Chloe had was toxic. Rachel and I had noticed this. As a nurse, Rachel was able to perfectly dissect and label all of the emotional abuse Chloe was giving Alice, like naming all of the bones in a hand.
The rest of the entire drive was emotional. At least for Alice. I glad that the sun had come out, saturating the bright green of the fields as we entered the town of Cambridgeshire.
Alice and Chloe parked their cars at a lot and we boarded a bus that zigzagged through the narrow streets of the university town. While Alice desperately tried to reclaim some of Conor’s attention back, I tried not to think about how totally screwed up my flat was. Jon had a girlfriend but was enjoying the benefits of getting pampered by the Three Stooges. Alice wanted Conor. Conor wanted Chloe. Chloe wanted Jon. Mollie wanted Jon. And I hated that Jon was getting more attention than me.
I even hated the Three Stooges a little bit because they asked all of the cool American questions to Jon instead of the obvious other American who lived with them. I knew it was just because they wanted to bask in Jon’s divine attention and to hear his manly American accent, but it also made me feel not just mad, but worthless. I added in my angry emotional stew to the powder keg of all of my flatmates and wondered if this was going to end well. It probably wasn’t. Rachel and I already knew that, so the two of us would have to stay as far away from the explosion as possible if the Three Stooges started fighting over Jon. The plan was to just keep my head down and let the chaos find its own way out.
The bus dropped us off in front of Cambridge University. The site of the historic school suddenly made me feel relaxed. In between the light golden brown structures were large spaces of green. It felt like an open campus compared to the constraint, tight environment of King’s College London. We walked over to the the docks of the River Cam and Jon immediately rushed over to the boats that were harbored.
“Anyone fancy a punt around the river bend?” He asked us.
I had no idea what he was talking about, until Conor and all of my flatmates agreed to go “punting.” We followed Jon’s bee-line to the boathouse as he asked the man behind the counter to take a boat out for a spin.
“Have you ever punted before, sir?” the man asked Jon.
“Of course I have,” Jon said, although I had a strange feeling that he really didn’t.
The man gave Jon an unimpressed look and I knew what this man was thinking: You mean to tell me that this American idiot knows how to punt a boat?
“Very well. If you say so. You get the boat for an hour. That will be £36."
Conor offered to pay the £36 on his credit card, and he told us to pay him back later.
“What a gentleman,” Alice singsonged as she hooked her arm around Conor and then turned to Chloe. “The Americans today really know how to treat us right."
“Yeah . . .” I mumbled unconvincingly, noticing how she left me – the other American – out.
“You sure know how to do this?” Mollie turned to Jon as we loaded up in the boat. It reminded me of a fallen bookcase as Mollie and I sat next to to each other. The edge of the boat was too close to the water that I feared anymore weight would push the boat down and fill it up. Alice and Chloe sat opposite of us and Conor sat behind Mollie and I. Jon was standing at the back of the ship. The man at the boathouse had handed Jon a punting stick and wished him luck.
“Yeah, how hard can it be?” Jon replied. He pushed the heavy stick down to the bottom of the lake and pushed us out from the dock and onto the river.
To Jon’s credit, he actually started off okay, until the bottom of the river grew too deep for Jon’s stick to reach the bottom to push us off. So we were left bobbing up the river, floating underneath the gothic bridges and drifting past the grand castle-like entrance of Cambridge University. Was I having fun yet? Not really. I was having a grand old time though watching Jon struggle with his punting stick in the water. Chloe even wanted a turn with the stick and she and Jon traded places. Conor had moved in between Mollie and I to get a better look at Chloe’s punting skills. She was pretty much just as poor as Jon was, if not worse.
“It’s nice to see my £36 be applied to something useful,” Conor half-joked.
“I can do it!” Alice instantly stood up, rocking the boat that I seriously almost believed I was going to fall right into the River Cam. “Here Chloe, let me take over."
“No, sit back down I got this.” Chloe said looking at Jon.
“Chloe, you had your turn with the stick. Now give it here!” Alice was now begging Chloe.
But Chloe started to laugh at her friend. “Oh, really Alice. With your height, and your weight you’ll never be able to move this boat."
“What do you know about my weight and height, I can move this boat if you just give me the stick."
I could hear the frustration growing in her voice, and I could feel Conor’s eyes on Chloe with the stick.
“Alice stop being so immature. Sit back down. I told you I got this."
“CHLOE! GIVE ME THE FUCKING STICK RIGHT NOW!” Alice screamed.
The river suddenly sounded very quiet. Conor, Mollie, Jon and I just stared at Alice and Chloe, wondering if someone would be pushed overboard.
But instead of handing Alice the stick, Chloe looked at Jon.
“Jon, why don’t you punt us back to shore. I think we’ve had enough on the river."
Without question, Alice sat her herself back down in the boat as Jon took the stick from Chloe. Chloe said nothing as she sat next to her friend.
It took Jon 20 minutes to punt us back to shore.
“Back so soon,” the man at the boathouse shook his head.
Nobody said anything. Until we were away from the river, Mollie suggested that we go inside a pub to grab a pint to cool ourselves. I decided to join them later. I wanted to get a Cambridge University sweatshirt for my mom. I watched my flatmates and Conor enter a pub that was next door to the Cambridge University school shop. I was so relieved to get out from that boat and to be away from my flatmates. As I browsed through the different sweatshirts with the Cambridge emblem, I tried to forget the first real spark that Rachel and I knew would ignite our flat. Tensions would rise between Alice and Chloe. Mollie will either be caught in the middle or join a side. And Jon? Jon got the better end of the deal. He was only abroad for a semester. At least both Rachel and I were looking forward to when he leaves. We figured that he was the main reason for all this building tension.
Eventually, I settled on a nice maroon Cambridge sweatshirt for myself and a dark blue zip-up for my mother. I didn’t immediately head back to the pub after my purchase. Instead, I pretended to be interested in one of the the blue and white Cambridge hats on display.
How did it come to this? I kept asking myself. How did it come to me avoiding my own flatmates?
Maybe I trusted my Mount Holyoke instincts too much. Maybe I was just spoiled for being enrolled at school where everyone was just naturally nice and approachable. Here I was, thinking that I could have that same connection at King’s College London.
But I also realized something.
My British flatmates, were also just kids, straight out from high school. They didn’t know what the freshmen 15 was nor the sophomore slump. They hadn’t even gone abroad yet. In a way, my flatmates were like me when I first arrived to Mount Holyoke: overly enthusiastic, and feeling like the “Big Man on Campus.” I was like them once, long ago.
The more I thought about it, the less angry I felt. Yes, Rachel and I would have to put up with them for the rest of the year – which wasn’t easy – but as I was standing in that shop in Cambridge, I felt a wave of pity for them. Even Jon. Mainly because (as I was smiling to myself) he would never have three British girls follow him around to serve him again once he left to return to the states. Instead, he would go back to Northwestern to his boring life and boring girlfriend. So, fine.
I would even try and think good thoughts to Mollie, Alice and Chloe.
I would hope that Alice learned to appreciate herself, and to remove herself from under Chloe’s shadow.
I would hope that Chloe would be patient and understanding to others who maybe were not as put together nor as confident as her.
And I would even hope that Mollie found some shred of happiness against her prickly outer shell.
So before I stepped outside, I thought about these redeeming possibilities. With some slight optimism, I left the shop to join my flatmates at the pub.
June 29, 2016
June 28th, 2016
I was talked into by my flatmates to accompany them to Biggleswade for Remembrance Day.
Two of my flatmates, Alice and Chloe lived in this town that sounded like the name I would give to a short-muzzled, tightly curled tailed pug – with the name "Wade" attached at the end.
We were at King's Cross Station, the six of us – Alice, Chloe, Mollie, Jon, Conor and me – to buy our train tickets.
My flatmate, and friend, Rachel was back home in Sunderland for the weekend. To be quite honest, I envied her a little bit. Not just because she was spending time with her family (while mine was an ocean and an entire continent away), but also because she didn't have to suffer with our flatmates.
It had already been three months since moving to London. I was entering my second weekend of November and feeling not so welcomed in this historic city, especially not by my three British female flatmates.
Besides Rachel, I had managed to make a handful of friends in England. On my first day of lectures at King's College London, I met Sofia for my Chaucer class. She had a wonderful accent, and shared my love for literature just as equally as me. In my Elizabethan Poetry class, a girl named Ally O spent a hour chatting me up. She was from Spain, and we exchanged writing tips to one another in between lectures. Then there was Jocelyn, who later became friends with both Sofia and I in our Victorian Literature class. She was studying abroad just for the fall semester from University of Pennsylvania. Then from Jon’s Arcadia Study Abroad Group, I had gotten friendly, but not too close to a couple of students studying at King’s College London with me. Amy, Mel, Erica and Conor. Conor, was going to Biggleswade with us.
The only American who I was the closets to was my friend, Geena. She was a member of the Arcadia group and was studying abroad for a semester from Mount Holyoke College. This alone made us automatic friends. Before going abroad, I knew Geena, but we were never close. I knew her by name, and it was only when I recognized her at my apartment complex in London that our bond as Mount Holyoke sisters strengthened.
As we boarded the train to Biggleswade, I wished nothing more than to have Geena with me. There’s no real nice way to write this, but my flatmates – except for Rachel – were bitches.
Even Jon, the only other male member living in our flat was a bonafide asshole.
In the months that I had lived with them, I had suddenly felt invisible to them.
Granted, because I can sometimes be egotistical, I did believe that before I arrived in London that I was going to be (as the kids call it these days) “hot shit.” And why wouldn’t I be? I was a American girl, studying abroad all the way in London, England from sunny California. I really did think that I was going to be a hot commodity. I thought all of my Mount Holyoke friends who were studying abroad our junior year were going to be hot commodities too.
But in truth, when I arrived at my apartment on Stanford Street, jet lagged and cranky as hell for only getting three hours of sleep on the plane, I wasn’t greeted with any “Oohh’s” and “Aahh’s” from neither Alice, nor Chloe and especially nothing from Mollie. I did get a lot of excitement when I first met Rachel’s mother helping her daughter move in. She introduced me to Rachel the instant she heard my American accent. I should have been over the moon, flattered even, that both Rachel and her mother greeted me with such warmth after leaving my parents behind for a full academic year. Except at that moment the jet lag really kicked in and I collapsed on top of my mattress when I found my dorm room.
Looking back, the only approval that I ever needed and wanted was only Rachel’s. But because the two of us were living with other people – people who we obviously didn’t like very much – we had to find a way to get along with them. The first American that I had met once I napped for eight hours straight in my dorm room, was Jon.
First impressions can really throw you in a loop.
Remember when Elizabeth Bennet first met Wickham in Pride and Prejudice? To refresh you memory, Elizabeth is with her sisters, Lydia and Kitty, when one of their officer friends introduces them to Mr. Wickham. Austen writes:
“[Mr. Wickham’s] appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming . . .”
This was what I first thought of Jon.
At the sometime, most of my anxiety had left me when he introduced himself to me. Mainly because it meant that I wasn’t the only American living in this flat. I had a companion that I could reminisce about Kraft Mac ’n’ Cheese with. Someone who had visited Los Angeles and knew about Hollywood and Pink’s Hot Dogs. Someone who understood that there was no better feeling than sticking your hand down a bag of Goldfish, or opening a fresh pack of birthday frosting Oreos.
Unfortunately, talking about these nostalgic American pastimes, very quickly became a very boring topic. America, itself was the one and only thing that Jon and I had in common. While I immersed myself with books, Jon was studying music at King’s College London. He told me and the other flatmates that he was writing a musical.
“It’s a Canadian love story,” he told us as we sat around the small around blue table that we had in our shared kitchen. “Between a conservative and a liberal who are fighting to become the next Prime Minister."
He promptly pulled up TuneSmith on his computer and showed us the music and lyrics for this musical.
Alice, Chloe and Mollie huddled around him.
“How fascinating."
“Oh, you’re so talented."
“You American boys are just too clever."
It doesn’t matter who said what to Jon, because at this point in our living situation, I was keenly aware that my three British flatmates were all worshipping the ground Jon walked upon.
When I told them that I had published a YA novel, Chloe said “That’s cool. I don’t really read though.” And Alice said, “Oh, how nice” before gluing her eyes back to her iPad to read The Daily Mail. Mollie’s response – unlike Alice and Chloe’s mildly intrigued reply – was more suspicious. As if she couldn’t believe that someone like me took the time to write a 272 page novel. “Is that so? You actually sat down and wrote a novel? Was there nothing exciting happening in your life or something?”
Actually, yeah. My life was kinda boring which was why I started writing to begin with.
But I guess if you’re writing a Canadian musical, it must mean that you had some purpose in life. Chloe and Alice had been best friends since high school and lived just a few doors down from each other in Biggleswade. So as you can imagine, every waking day was the Chloe and Alice show. They were such a unit that their classmates mixed them up, even though they looked nothing alike.
Chloe – the best and unfortunate true description that Rachel told me was – an English Rose. Even I admit, Chloe was very pretty. She had long light caramel colored hair, sun-kissed warm skin, big green eyes and round rosy cheeks. Alice, on the other hand was the polar opposite of her friend. While Chloe was taller than Alice and spoke with a smooth accent that almost sounded silky and perfect, Alice was the less confident about her looks. She was mousey, with fading yellow hair, dry wall white skin and small cloudy blue eyes. Chloe always reminded Alice that she was balding at her scalp and that her left eyebrow didn’t have enough hair so it looked like she only had one brow. I had noticed that Alice was suppressed under Chloe’s shadow. But she never fought back against her friend. Instead she went along with Chloe’s comments about her bald spot and her thinly haired left eyebrow because Chloe had a knack for inviting some good looking boys over to our flat to play beer pong. Chloe was her only source for meeting boys, and she would laugh off every snide and every critical thing Chloe had to say to her if it meant having some of Chloe’s magic rub off from her.
On day one of meeting Jon, they had sat on either side of him at the kitchen table trying to get him to settle an argument about if American men preferred watching football or baseball. I don’t remember Jon’s answer, except that whatever it was made Chloe and Alice laugh like hyenas.
Then there was Mollie. When I first met her, I thought she was older than me because she was so tall. But then I learned that I was older than her by three years and she was just a freshmen entering her first year at King’s College. She was enrolled in the same nursing program as Rachel at Guy’s Campus. Mollie – with a “IE” at the end instead of the standard “Y” – wasn’t too keen on me when we first met. Alice, Chloe and I were Oompa Loompa size compared to the giant that was Mollie was. Everything about her was pale. Her skin was bleach white, her hair a platinum blond, and her eyes a washed out blue. When I finally did some shopping and bought myself a bowl, a dish, a pot and pan, all of the cabinet space above the skin was already taken by Alice, Chloe and Mollie. Jon, luckily, was given special permission from Alice to share her cabinet space.
“Is there no more room in the cabinets?” I turned to Mollie who was cooking something on the stove.
“Nah. But we left you some room under the sink though,” she said stirring whatever was boiling in her pot.
“Under the sink?” I got down on my knees and opened the cabinet to see the empty two shelves in front of me. “This should be storage."
“Yeah I know.” Mollie said without looking at me.
“No, I mean storage for cleaning supplies,” I said. “Like for the skin and the stove."
“Well it’s the only free space that’s left. Do you want it or not?"
I should have done what Rachel did and just leave all of my cooking supplies in my room. At least I had enough room in my dorm to store things like my pots and pans. But I also wanted my pots and pans to be conveniently located in the kitchen, because that’s where the pots and pans belong.
I took the space under the sink. Reluctantly, of course. So whenever I needed to use one of my cooking tools, either Alice, Chloe, Mollie or Jon would be at the sink, washing their dishes. This turned into, “Can Jacqueline retrieve her pot under the sink without Chloe lapping water on top of her?” For my first semester under the sink, I was pretty successful at avoiding all of the soap and water from the skin whenever someone would be using it. Although with Mollie, I just waited until she was done washing her dishes in the sink. I knew she would “accidentally” spill dish water on me if I was on my knees pulling one of my kitchen items out. Especially when Jon was in the room.
I made the first mistake of pulling something out from my sink cabinet while Mollie was doing the dishes. Jon was actually asking me a question about California as I pulled out my pot to make pasta. He wanted to know how close Pasadena was from San Diego when I felt something cold and wet running down from my scalp over my eyes. The front of my head was completely soaked and I looked up to find Mollie washing a large stainless steel pasta spoon at the skin.
“Whoops,” she shrugged before turning off the faucet to dry off the spoon. “You should probably wait your turn next time if you don’t want end up in the splash zone."
While Chloe obsessed over boys, and Alice obsessed over being just like Chloe, Mollie was obsessed over taking anyone down who held Jon’s attention for longer than a minute. When Mollie met Alice and Chloe, they got along right away – mainly because they all secretly had one huge crush on Jon – and from then on it was like Jon had his own entourage of British girls hanging on her every word. It even got to the point when Alice, Chloe and Mollie – AKA the Three Stooges, as Rachel and I later secretly nicknamed them – chipped in enough money to make Jon dinner. DINNER! Three British girls were taking the time to feed him!
Rachel and I couldn’t believe it.
“Why are they even doing this?” Rachel turned to me one evening when the Three Stooges and Jon all decided to take a stroll around Somerset House without inviting us. “It’s not like they’re going to get anything out of this! He has a girlfriend!"
And this is what made me angry at Jon to begin with. Jon had a girlfriend back in New York named Julia. Before going abroad, both Jon and Julia decided to put their relationship on hold. Apparently, a lot of the boys from Northwestern did this. They had girlfriends back home but decided to either take a break or just split up while they went dilly-daddling in London. Conor told me that he and his girlfriend mutually agreed to take a break when he told her that he would be abroad for a semester. In a way, I felt torn about this decision, of men putting their girlfriends aside – or breaking up – just to be single in London for a short period of time.
On the one hand, I understood this decision, especially if it was a mutual agreement like Conor and his girlfriend. I get how fun single life could be, and in a foreign country with foreign people. You meet so many different kinds of personality outside of America. Yet, if you were tied down to someone, you couldn’t go on Tinder and meet some European for a one-night-stand. Because you knew that you had to be loyal to your significant other back home. And maybe your significant other wants you to have a good – single – time abroad, and agrees to give you a break because they care about your happiness abroad. Although, there were also plenty of American boys who were in long-term relationships, and didn’t formally say they were breaking up with their girlfriends, but went on sleeping with one of two British women.
However, in retrospect, this is also really shitty move. I mean you have a girlfriend that you take the time to cultivate a relationship with and then you decide to go abroad. And after years of building this relationship, you ask your significant other to take a break because you want to be single again in Europe. I saw this as boys shelving their girlfriends away until they returned to pick things off as they left them. Because what? Being single again to sleep with as many European girls as you want was more important than the significant you spent the most time with?
I wasn’t sure I could do that. I wasn’t sure I would be able to be okay with my boyfriend going abroad and agreeing to “take a break.” Sure I would want him to have fun, but does that fun consist of being single so that he could feel guilt-free if he found someone else? Even if it was nothing serious? Even if it was a one-night-stand? I don’t think I could bare to think of him with someone else who wasn’t me. Maybe that’s just my “girly feelings” talking but it’s true. Because that’s the blessing Conor’s girlfriend left him, that was the blessing many girls who were back in America gave to their significant others as they waited for them come home. To be guilt-free. To not feel bad if they decided to sleep with someone else. To be forgiven by those girls when the fun did end and the semester abroad was over. That’s just the reality.
So Jon and Julia were on a break while Jon was abroad. Which meant Jon was fair game. However, after several days living the single life in London, it suddenly hit Jon that he didn’t like this break he and Julia had found themselves in. Before either one of the Three Stooges could pounce on him, Jon had announced to us that he and Julia were officially back together. You would think this news would at least send a message to The Three Stooges to back off, just a little. But they didn’t. And Jon didn’t tell them to stop.
Whenever one of Three Stooges would touch Jon affectionately he wouldn’t brush them off. If either Alice or Chloe wanted to hold hands with him, he wouldn’t question it. In response to the attention Jon was receiving from our British flatmates he would reward them with his presence. Once, all four of them went off together to a taping of The Graham Norton Show (without inviting Rachel and I). Then another time all four of them left the apartment to go to a nearby pub (without inviting Rachel and I). And another time – and this one really pissed me off – all four of them decided to go ice skating at Somerset House (without inviting Rachel and I). This escapade with The Three Stooges and Jon really took the cake because I CLEARLY ANNOUNCED to the entire flat that maybe as a flat we could do a fun activity together and buy tickets to ice stake at Somerset House. This was back when I still held on to some small thread of hope that maybe we could all just get along. Instead, Jon and the Three Stooges had bought their tickets without informing Rachel and I the plan, and the four of them went off anyway. What sucked more, was that that was the last day the ice rink would be open at Somerset House for the entire winter. So not only were Rachel and I jacked out from staking with out entire flat, but we had missed staking at Somerset House all together.
Yeah. I was hella mad. After a 30 minute train ride from King’s Cross Station to the town of Biggleswade, the Three Stooges, Jon, Conor and I had arrived for the Remembrance Day Ceremony in the town.
Rachel had explained to me that Remembrance Day was like the US’s version of Veteran’s Day. It was a memorial day to remember the members of the armed forces who had died in the line of duty during the First World War. Everyone was wearing a red poppy on their lapels as I stood with my flatmates and Conor to the side of the road to watch the Remembrance Day parade. Holly, the friendly receptionist at the Stanford Street Apartments had bought me my paper poppy to wear to Biggleswade before I left. I tried to remember the last time I was at a memorial service this quiet and serious for the fallen soldiers during the war, but all I could think of was how far away my grandparents were buried back in California. So far a way, and they were buried in such a beautiful place. As grim as this ceremony was, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was at Forest Lawn in California. On the the green hill my grandparents who fought and served in the Second World War were laid to rest. But when I opened my eyes I was back in Biggleswade, England under the overcast gray sky.
“Let’s do something fun,” Alice turned to us when the ceremony was over.
“Like what?” Conor asked her.
“Oh, I was thinking taking a quick trip down to Cambridgeshire,” Alice’s voice hiked up another octave whenever she spoke to Conor.
Conor was an interesting character. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t hate him either compared to the other boys who came from Northeastern with Jon. He was just there. And whenever we were in the same room we kind of acknowledged each other, which – compared to the Three Stooges – I actually really appreciated. At least with Conor he didn’t pretend I was invisible and I think it was because I had something he didn’t have: California bragging rights.
Back in his hometown of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Conor was an actor. A good one actually. Good enough to get me thinking if he was really trying to be my friend or just acting. Anyway, he played an extra in The Perks of Being a Wallflower and Me Earl and the Dying Girl. He showed me pictures on his phone meeting Paul Rudd and Aaron Paul. He had his own IMDB page and was hoping to make it big in Los Angeles one day.
And guess who was the only girl attending King’s College straight from Southern California: This gal.
Conor and I bonded over things like In-n-Out Burger (and how much we desperately missed it) the palm trees, and if I knew anyone in the movie/TV business. Because obviously, George Clooney is my next door neighbor. Although, the truth was that yes, I knew people at Paramount and Warner Brothers, but I didn’t go into great detail with him about my connections.
What made me like Conor – just a little bit – was the fact that he didn’t bullshit with me. He didn’t try to beat around the bush and was directly honest. That’s pretty much the only reason why I liked him enough to be my friend. However, he was also a bit of a sneeze. Particularly with Alice. Not that I cared, but I did notice what he was doing.
Conor originally wanted to get together with Chloe, and I mean who could blame him, she is after all pretty. But Chloe was too busy flirting with Jon and asking him all these American questions that I knew all the answers to. So while Chloe was distracted by Jon, Conor decided to move on to his second choice which was Alice.
The two of them had tipsily made out when we all went out to Piccadilly Circus, followed by Alice inviting Conor back to her room and having sex with him. Alice was sure this was proof of Conor’s feelings for her, despite that Conor obviously wanted to get together with Chloe badly. Alice had tried to keep things going with Conor – finally thinking that she found a boy who only saw her instead of Chloe – but Conor reverted to treating Alice the way he treated me: Totally platonic.
Alice, however, was unaware of Conor’s feelings for Chloe. We took two cars to Cambridgeshire.
I was in a car with Mollie and Alice while Chloe took her car and drove with the boys.
“Do you think he still likes me?” Alice was asking Mollie about Conor as I sat in the backseat. It was so weird watching someone drive on the opposite side of the car. I felt too cramped in one area so I decided to just sit in the middle.
“I mean, yes of course,” Mollie replied. “I just think he need to sort things out with his former girlfriend from home is all."
“You think so? Have you seen what she looks like? Is she prettier than me?"
As Alice listed off all of the possible questions she had to Mollie about Conor, I part of me really did pity Alice for being so insecure about herself. The problem wasn’t that these insecurities steam from within, but from Chloe who constantly reminded Alice where her place was in their friendship.
I had seen enough TV shows and movies, and had read enough books to know that relationships like the one Alice and Chloe had was toxic. Rachel and I had noticed this. As a nurse, Rachel was able to perfectly dissect and label all of the emotional abuse Chloe was giving Alice, like naming all of the bones in a hand.
“If Alice doesn’t stand up for herself soon, she won’t have anyone by her side by the time Chloe is done with her."
“What about Conor?” I asked Rachel.
“That’s an even worse scenario.” Rachel and I had felt like we were the only ones who knew about the Holy Disaster Trinity that was Alice, Chloe and Conor. “Because if Alice finds out that Conor was just using her, she’ll always believe that she’s nothing compared to Chloe.”
The rest of the entire drive was emotional. At least for Alice. I was at least glad that the sun had come out, saturating the bright green of the fields as we entered the town of Cambridgeshire.
Alice and Chloe parked their cars at a lot and we took a boarded a bus that zigzagged through the narrow streets of the university town. While Alice desperately tried to reclaim some of Conor’s attention back, I tried not to think about how totally screwed up my flat was. Jon had a girlfriend but was enjoying the benefits of getting pampered by the Three Stooges. Alice wanted Conor. Conor wanted Chloe. Chloe wanted Jon. Mollie wanted Jon. And I hated that Jon was getting more attention than me.
Two of my flatmates, Alice and Chloe lived in this town that sounded like the name I would give to a short-muzzled, tightly curled tailed pug – with the name "Wade" attached at the end.
We were at King's Cross Station, the six of us – Alice, Chloe, Mollie, Jon, Conor and me – to buy our train tickets.
My flatmate, and friend, Rachel was back home in Sunderland for the weekend. To be quite honest, I envied her a little bit. Not just because she was spending time with her family (while mine was an ocean and an entire continent away), but also because she didn't have to suffer with our flatmates.
It had already been three months since moving to London. I was entering my second weekend of November and feeling not so welcomed in this historic city, especially not by my three British female flatmates.
Besides Rachel, I had managed to make a handful of friends in England. On my first day of lectures at King's College London, I met Sofia for my Chaucer class. She had a wonderful accent, and shared my love for literature just as equally as me. In my Elizabethan Poetry class, a girl named Ally O spent a hour chatting me up. She was from Spain, and we exchanged writing tips to one another in between lectures. Then there was Jocelyn, who later became friends with both Sofia and I in our Victorian Literature class. She was studying abroad just for the fall semester from University of Pennsylvania. Then from Jon’s Arcadia Study Abroad Group, I had gotten friendly, but not too close to a couple of students studying at King’s College London with me. Amy, Mel, Erica and Conor. Conor, was going to Biggleswade with us.
The only American who I was the closets to was my friend, Geena. She was a member of the Arcadia group and was studying abroad for a semester from Mount Holyoke College. This alone made us automatic friends. Before going abroad, I knew Geena, but we were never close. I knew her by name, and it was only when I recognized her at my apartment complex in London that our bond as Mount Holyoke sisters strengthened.
As we boarded the train to Biggleswade, I wished nothing more than to have Geena with me.
There’s no real nice way to write this, but my flatmates – except for Rachel – were bitches. Even Jon, the only other male member living in our flat was a bonafide asshole.
In the months that I had lived with them, I had suddenly felt invisible to them.
Granted, because I can sometimes be egotistical, I did believe that before I arrived in London that I was going to be (as the kids call it these days) “hot shit.” And why wouldn’t I be? I was a American girl, studying abroad all the way in London, England from sunny California. I really did think that I was going to be a hot commodity. I thought all of my Mount Holyoke friends who were studying abroad our junior year were going to be hot commodities too.
But in truth, when I arrived at my apartment on Stanford Street, jet lagged and cranky as hell for only getting three hours of sleep on the plane, I wasn’t greeted with any “Oohh’s” and “Aahh’s” from neither Alice, nor Chloe and especially nothing from Mollie. I did get a lot of excitement when I first met Rachel’s mother helping her daughter move in. She introduced me to Rachel the instant she heard my American accent. I should have been over the moon, flattered even, that both Rachel and her mother greeted me with such warmth after leaving my parents behind for a full academic year. Except at that moment the jet lag really kicked in and I collapsed on top of my mattress when I found my dorm room.
Looking back, the only approval that I ever needed and wanted was only Rachel’s. But because the two of us were living with other people – people who we obviously didn’t like very much – we had to find a way to get along with them.
The first American that I had met once I napped for eight hours straight in my dorm room, was Jon. First impressions can really throw you in a loop.
Remember when Elizabeth Bennet first met Wickham in Pride and Prejudice? To refresh you memory, Elizabeth is with her sisters, Lydia and Kitty, when one of their officer friends introduces them to Mr. Wickham. Austen writes:
“[Mr. Wickham’s] appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming . . .”
This was what I first thought of Jon.
At the sometime, most of my anxiety had left me when he introduced himself to me. Mainly because it meant that I wasn’t the only American living in this flat. I had a companion that I could reminisce about Kraft Mac ’n’ Cheese with. Someone who had visited Los Angeles and knew about Hollywood and Pink’s Hot Dogs. Someone who understood that there was no better feeling than sticking your hand down a bag of Goldfish, or opening a fresh pack of birthday frosting Oreos.
Unfortunately, talking about these nostalgic American pastimes, very quickly became a very boring topic. America, itself was the one and only thing that Jon and I had in common. While I immersed myself with books, Jon was studying music at King’s College London. He told me and the other flatmates that he was writing a musical.
“It’s a Canadian love story,” he told us as we sat around the small around blue table that we had in our shared kitchen. “Between a conservative and a liberal who are fighting to become the next Prime Minister."
He promptly pulled up TuneSmith on his computer and showed us the music and lyrics for this musical.
Alice, Chloe and Mollie huddled around him.
“How fascinating."
“Oh, you’re so talented."
“You American boys are just too clever."
It doesn’t matter who said what to Jon, because at this point in our living situation, I was keenly aware that my three British flatmates were all worshipping the ground Jon walked upon.
When I told them that I had published a YA novel, Chloe said “That’s cool. I don’t really read though.” And Alice said, “Oh, how nice” before gluing her eyes back to her iPad to read The Daily Mail. Mollie’s response – unlike Alice and Chloe’s mildly intrigued reply – was more suspicious. As if she couldn’t believe that someone like me took the time to write a 272 page novel. “Is that so? You actually sat down and wrote a novel? Was there nothing exciting happening in your life or something?”
Actually, yeah. My life was kinda boring which was why I started writing to begin with.
But I guess if you’re writing a Canadian musical, it must mean that you had some purpose in life.
Chloe and Alice had been best friends since high school and lived just a few doors down from each other in Biggleswade. So as you can imagine, every waking day was the Chloe and Alice show. They were such a unit that their classmates mixed them up, even though they looked nothing alike.Chloe – the best and unfortunate true description that Rachel told me was – an English Rose. Even I admit, Chloe was very pretty. She had long light caramel colored hair, sun-kissed warm skin, big green eyes and round rosy cheeks. Alice, on the other hand was the polar opposite of her friend. While Chloe was taller than Alice and spoke with a smooth accent that almost sounded silky and perfect, Alice was the less confident about her looks. She was mousey, with fading yellow hair, dry wall white skin and small cloudy blue eyes. Chloe always reminded Alice that she was balding at her scalp and that her left eyebrow didn’t have enough hair so it looked like she only had one brow. I had noticed that Alice was suppressed under Chloe’s shadow. But she never fought back against her friend. Instead she went along with Chloe’s comments about her bald spot and her thinly haired left eyebrow because Chloe had a knack for inviting some good looking boys over to our flat to play beer pong. Chloe was her only source for meeting boys, and she would laugh off every snide and every critical thing Chloe had to say to her if it meant having some of Chloe’s magic rub off from her.
On day one of meeting Jon, they had sat on either side of him at the kitchen table trying to get him to settle an argument about if American men preferred watching football or baseball. I don’t remember Jon’s answer, except that whatever it was made Chloe and Alice laugh like hyenas.
Then there was Mollie. When I first met her, I thought she was older than me because she was so tall. But then I learned that I was older than her by three years and she was just a freshmen entering her first year at King’s College. She was enrolled in the same nursing program as Rachel at Guy’s Campus. Mollie – with a “IE” at the end instead of the standard “Y” – wasn’t too keen on me when we first met. Alice, Chloe and I were Oompa Loompa size compared to the giant that was Mollie was. Everything about her was pale. Her skin was bleach white, her hair a platinum blond, and her eyes a washed out blue. When I finally did some shopping and bought myself a bowl, a dish, a pot and pan, all of the cabinet space above the skin was already taken by Alice, Chloe and Mollie. Jon, luckily, was given special permission from Alice to share her cabinet space.
“Is there no more room in the cabinets?” I turned to Mollie who was cooking something on the stove.
“Nah. But we left you some room under the sink though,” she said stirring whatever was boiling in her pot.
“Under the sink?” I got down on my knees and opened the cabinet to see the empty two shelves in front of me. “This should be storage."
“Yeah I know.” Mollie said without looking at me.
“No, I mean storage for cleaning supplies,” I said. “Like for the skin and the stove."
“Well it’s the only free space that’s left. Do you want it or not?"
I should have done what Rachel did and just leave all of my cooking supplies in my room. At least I had enough room in my dorm to store things like my pots and pans. But I also wanted my pots and pans to be conveniently located in the kitchen, because that’s where the pots and pans belong.
I took the space under the sink. Reluctantly, of course. So whenever I needed to use one of my cooking tools, either Alice, Chloe, Mollie or Jon would be at the sink, washing their dishes. This turned into, “Can Jacqueline retrieve her pot under the sink without Chloe lapping water on top of her?” For my first semester under the sink, I was pretty successful at avoiding all of the soap and water from the skin whenever someone would be using it. Although with Mollie, I just waited until she was done washing her dishes in the sink. I knew she would “accidentally” spill dish water on me if I was on my knees pulling one of my kitchen items out. Especially when Jon was in the room.
I made the first mistake of pulling something out from my sink cabinet while Mollie was doing the dishes. Jon was actually asking me a question about California as I pulled out my pot to make pasta. He wanted to know how close Pasadena was from San Diego when I felt something cold and wet running down from my scalp over my eyes. The front of my head was completely soaked and I looked up to find Mollie washing a large stainless steel pasta spoon at the skin.
“Whoops,” she shrugged before turning off the faucet to dry off the spoon. “You should probably wait your turn next time if you don’t want end up in the splash zone."
While Chloe obsessed over boys, and Alice obsessed over being just like Chloe, Mollie was obsessed over taking anyone down who held Jon’s attention for longer than a minute. When Mollie met Alice and Chloe, they got along right away – mainly because they all secretly had one huge crush on Jon – and from then on it was like Jon had his own entourage of British girls hanging on her every word.
It even got to the point when Alice, Chloe and Mollie – AKA the Three Stooges, as Rachel and I later secretly nicknamed them – chipped in enough money to make Jon dinner. DINNER! Three British girls were taking the time to feed him! Rachel and I couldn’t believe it.
“Why are they even doing this?” Rachel turned to me one evening when the Three Stooges and Jon all decided to take a stroll around Somerset House without inviting us. “It’s not like they’re going to get anything out of this! He has a girlfriend!"
And this is what made me angry at Jon to begin with. Jon had a girlfriend back in New York named Julia. Before going abroad, both Jon and Julia decided to put their relationship on hold. Apparently, a lot of the boys from Northwestern did this. They had girlfriends back home but decided to either take a break or just split up while they went dilly-daddling in London. Conor told me that he and his girlfriend mutually agreed to take a break when he told her that he would be abroad for a semester. In a way, I felt torn about this decision, of men putting their girlfriends aside – or breaking up – just to be single in London for a short period of time.
On the one hand, I understood this decision, especially if it was a mutual agreement like Conor and his girlfriend. I get how fun single life could be, and in a foreign country with foreign people. You meet so many different kinds of personality outside of America. Yet, if you were tied down to someone, you couldn’t go on Tinder and meet some European for a one-night-stand. Because you knew that you had to be loyal to your significant other back home. And maybe your significant other wants you to have a good – single – time abroad, and agrees to give you a break because they care about your happiness abroad. Although, there were also plenty of American boys who were in long-term relationships, and didn’t formally say they were breaking up with their girlfriends, but went on sleeping with one of two British women.
However, in retrospect, this is also really shitty move. I mean you have a girlfriend that you take the time to cultivate a relationship with and then you decide to go abroad. And after years of building this relationship, you ask your significant other to take a break because you want to be single again in Europe. I saw this as boys shelving their girlfriends away until they returned to pick things off as they left them. Because what? Being single again to sleep with as many European girls as you want was more important than the significant you spent the most time with?
I wasn’t sure I could do that. I wasn’t sure I would be able to be okay with my boyfriend going abroad and agreeing to “take a break.” Sure I would want him to have fun, but does that fun consist of being single so that he could feel guilt-free if he found someone else? Even if it was nothing serious? Even if it was a one-night-stand? I don’t think I could bare to think of him with someone else who wasn’t me. Maybe that’s just my “girly feelings” talking but it’s true. Because that’s the blessing Conor’s girlfriend left him, that was the blessing many girls who were back in America gave to their significant others as they waited for them come home. To be guilt-free. To not feel bad if they decided to sleep with someone else. To be forgiven by those girls when the fun did end and the semester abroad was over. That’s just the reality.
So Jon and Julia were on a break while Jon was abroad. Which meant Jon was fair game. However, after several days living the single life in London, it suddenly hit Jon that he didn’t like this break he and Julia had found themselves in. Before either one of the Three Stooges could pounce on him, Jon had announced to us that he and Julia were officially back together. You would think this news would at least send a message to The Three Stooges to back off, just a little. But they didn’t. And Jon didn’t tell them to stop.
Whenever one of Three Stooges would touch Jon affectionately he wouldn’t brush them off. If either Alice or Chloe wanted to hold hands with him, he wouldn’t question it. In response to the attention Jon was receiving from our British flatmates he would reward them with his presence. Once, all four of them went off together to a taping of The Graham Norton Show (without inviting Rachel and I). Then another time all four of them left the apartment to go to a nearby pub (without inviting Rachel and I). And another time – and this one really pissed me off – all four of them decided to go ice skating at Somerset House (without inviting Rachel and I). This escapade with The Three Stooges and Jon really took the cake because I CLEARLY ANNOUNCED to the entire flat that maybe as a flat we could do a fun activity together and buy tickets to ice stake at Somerset House. This was back when I still held on to some small thread of hope that maybe we could all just get along. Instead, Jon and the Three Stooges had bought their tickets without informing Rachel and I the plan, and the four of them went off anyway. What sucked more, was that that was the last day the ice rink would be open at Somerset House for the entire winter. So not only were Rachel and I jacked out from staking with out entire flat, but we had missed staking at Somerset House all together.
Yeah. I was hella mad.
After a 30 minute train ride from King’s Cross Station to the town of Biggleswade, the Three Stooges, Jon, Conor and I had arrived for the Remembrance Day Ceremony in the town. Rachel had explained to me that Remembrance Day was like the US’s version of Veteran’s Day. It was a memorial day to remember the members of the armed forces who had died in the line of duty during the First World War. Everyone was wearing a red poppy on their lapels as I stood with my flatmates and Conor to the side of the road to watch the Remembrance Day parade. Holly, the friendly receptionist at the Stanford Street Apartments had bought me my paper poppy to wear to Biggleswade before I left. I tried to remember the last time I was at a memorial service this quiet and serious for the fallen soldiers during the war, but all I could think of was how far away my grandparents were buried back in California. So far a way, and they were buried in such a beautiful place. As grim as this ceremony was, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was at Forest Lawn in California. On the the green hill my grandparents who fought and served in the Second World War were laid to rest. But when I opened my eyes I was back in Biggleswade, England under the overcast gray sky.
“Let’s do something fun,” Alice turned to us when the ceremony was over.
“Like what?” Conor asked her.
“Oh, I was thinking taking a quick trip down to Cambridgeshire,” Alice’s voice hiked up another octave whenever she spoke to Conor.
Conor was an interesting character. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t hate him either compared to the other boys who came from Northeastern with Jon. He was just there. And whenever we were in the same room we kind of acknowledged each other, which – compared to the Three Stooges – I actually really appreciated. At least with Conor he didn’t pretend I was invisible and I think it was because I had something he didn’t have: California bragging rights.
Back in his hometown of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Conor was an actor. A good one actually. Good enough to get me thinking if he was really trying to be my friend or just acting. Anyway, he played an extra in The Perks of Being a Wallflower and Me Earl and the Dying Girl. He showed me pictures on his phone meeting Paul Rudd and Aaron Paul. He had his own IMDB page and was hoping to make it big in Los Angeles one day.
And guess who was the only girl attending King’s College straight from Southern California: This gal.
Conor and I bonded over things like In-n-Out Burger (and how much we desperately missed it) the palm trees, and if I knew anyone in the movie/TV business. Because obviously, George Clooney is my next door neighbor. Although, the truth was that yes, I knew people at Paramount and Warner Brothers, but I didn’t go into great detail with him about my connections.
What made me like Conor – just a little bit – was the fact that he didn’t bullshit with me. He didn’t try to beat around the bush and was directly honest. That’s pretty much the only reason why I liked him enough to be my friend. However, he was also a bit of a sneeze. Particularly with Alice. Not that I cared, but I did notice what he was doing.
Conor originally wanted to get together with Chloe, and I mean who could blame him, she is after all pretty. But Chloe was too busy flirting with Jon and asking him all these American questions that I knew all the answers to. So while Chloe was distracted by Jon, Conor decided to move on to his second choice which was Alice.
The two of them had tipsily made out when we all went out to Piccadilly Circus, followed by Alice inviting Conor back to her room and having sex with him. Alice was sure this was proof of Conor’s feelings for her, despite that Conor obviously wanted to get together with Chloe badly. Alice had tried to keep things going with Conor – finally thinking that she found a boy who only saw her instead of Chloe – but Conor reverted to treating Alice the way he treated me: Totally platonic.
Alice, however, was unaware of Conor’s feelings for Chloe.
We took two cars to Cambridgeshire.I was in a car with Mollie and Alice while Chloe took her car and drove with the boys.
“Do you think he still likes me?” Alice was asking Mollie about Conor as I sat in the backseat. It was so weird watching someone drive on the opposite side of the car. I felt too cramped in one area so I decided to just sit in the middle.
“I mean, yes of course,” Mollie replied. “I just think he need to sort things out with his former girlfriend from home is all."
“You think so? Have you seen what she looks like? Is she prettier than me?"
As Alice listed off all of the possible questions she had to Mollie about Conor, I part of me really did pity Alice for being so insecure about herself. The problem wasn’t that these insecurities steam from within, but from Chloe who constantly reminded Alice where her place was in their friendship.
I had seen enough TV shows and movies, and had read enough books to know that relationships like the one Alice and Chloe had was toxic. Rachel and I had noticed this. As a nurse, Rachel was able to perfectly dissect and label all of the emotional abuse Chloe was giving Alice, like naming all of the bones in a hand.
“If Alice doesn’t stand up for herself soon, she won’t have anyone by her side by the time Chloe is done with her."
“What about Conor?” I asked Rachel.
“That’s an even worse scenario.” Rachel and I had felt like we were the only ones who knew about the Holy Disaster Trinity that was Alice, Chloe and Conor. “Because if Alice finds out that Conor was just using her, she’ll always believe that she’s nothing compared to Chloe.”
The rest of the entire drive was emotional. At least for Alice. I was at least glad that the sun had come out, saturating the bright green of the fields as we entered the town of Cambridgeshire.
Alice and Chloe parked their cars at a lot and we took a boarded a bus that zigzagged through the narrow streets of the university town. While Alice desperately tried to reclaim some of Conor’s attention back, I tried not to think about how totally screwed up my flat was. Jon had a girlfriend but was enjoying the benefits of getting pampered by the Three Stooges. Alice wanted Conor. Conor wanted Chloe. Chloe wanted Jon. Mollie wanted Jon. And I hated that Jon was getting more attention than me.
June 20, 2016
May 30, 2016
Harrods is Ridiculous
I am a sucker when it comes to kitschy tourist attractions. That's how I got sucked into The Canterbury Tales Visitor's Attraction Center where a man behind a desk, dressed up as The Miller, charged me £8.50 to walk through an old church building with animatronic robots costumed as the characters from Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales.
BUT.
That's an entirely different story for another time.
London was sprawled with these little kitsch attractions. And maybe the reason why I was so attracted to all of this tackiness was because they reminded me somewhat of home.
Like Bob's Big Boy restaurant in Burbank, or Ruby's restaurant in San Diego; even Hollywood Boulevard with their sidewalk characters mulling and congesting the front of the Chinese Theater always made me wish I took a picture with that Groucho Marx look-alike back in the Summer of 2009.
Kitschiness has a strange enduring power over people – or maybe it's just for people like me. Like a lava lamp, the prime example of the kitschiness of the sixties. Although, who owns a lava lamp nowadays in the age of AppleWatch and Netflix? Yet, we like tacky items like these, most likely because it gives us a strange sense of escapism or nostalgia, reminding us of a time that has long since past, or an age that we've wished we've lived through. A good modern example of kitschiness is whenever you stumble across those Buzzfeed quizzes on your Newsfeed that could calculate what percent 90's kids you were.
What was your most favorite 90's toy? Was it Ferby? Tamagotchi? Polly Pocket? Or maybe even Beanie Babies?
In London, I loved walking Southbank and passing by The London Dungeon. It was so full of kitschiness because all of the actors would be outside dressed up like Guy Fawkes, Jack the Ripper and Sweeney Todd coaxing people into their attraction of doom. Even at Hampton Court, someone would be dressed up as King Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn or Cardinal Wolsey, milling before the tourists to act out the actions of their historic counterparts.
One day, I was with my friend Amy when she suggested that we go out to Kensington to check out this department store called Harrods.
"Oh good," I told her, when we got off the Piccadilly Line. "I need to buy a hairdryer."
"Trust me, this isn't a normal department store that we're going to."
Boy was she right.
Harrods towered over us like some Ottoman Empire fortress, or a long forgotten Russian palace. The building itself took over the whole entire block in front of us. As if its grandeur size wasn't enough to intimidate me, the department store boasted its palatial style, featuring a frontage clad in terracotta tiles adorned with cherubs, swirling Art Nouveau windows and topped with a baroque-style dome. People were strolling through the doors, leaving the department store with dark green plastic bags – the store's name dashed in gold on the front for everyone to see.
And I thought The Americana, The Promenade and The Grove were the nicest shopping centers I've been too back in California. But I guess in England, Harrods excels all three of those places.
"It's the world's most prestigious department store," Amy tells me as we walk in, a blast of cool air greeting us as we enter the makeup department. "There's nothing like it in the world."
"Most prestigious" in my books was whenever there was a Sabarro's in the food court section of the mall. But here at Harrods, they had their own little grocery store inside the building.
As I would later come to find out, Harrods was nothing that I've seen before. To modern California eyes like my own, the place was absolutely absurd. Yet, Amy and I had to squeeze past people with their own entourage accompanying them, and we had to wait our turn to ride the escalators – because someone high up in the British government was in the shoe department currently buying his wife a new pair of Louboutins for her birthday. The place was packed with people, tourists like Amy and I dressed in our shorts and tank tops, while a good majority of the other people that populated the store were elderly women wearing Alexander McQueen cardigans or Givenchy pantsuits.
If the department store marvels in the United States came into being when Eisenhower was president, Harrods represents the time before the Romanov's were assassinated. Established in 1824, Harrods was founded by twenty-five year-old Charles Henry Harrod who originally sold his groceries in Knightsbridge. There was only a £20 turnover per week, but thankfully good old Charles Henry Harrod made a good investment in setting up shop in the Kensington area, because by the 1850's Knightsbridge rapidly grew into one of the most fashionable parts of London. By 1860, Charles's son took over the business – Charles Digby Harrod. and by 1868, the shop suddenly had a turnover that rose to £1,000 per week. Thanks to Charles Digby Harrod, this grand surplus of money helped him expand Harrods to the business that it is today. A surge of thriving retail, perfume stations and pharmaceutical distribution was added to the successful Harrods.
And Charles Digby didn't stop there to usher people into entering his shop.
In 1898, Charles Digby debuted the first escalator at Harrods. If that wasn't pretentious enough, nervous customers were offered brandy at the top of the escalator to revive them after the "moving staircase" carried them up a flight in the department store.
The escalator today – once Amy and I finally got a chance to ride on – is now called The Egyptian Escalator. The dude who renovated the escalator was William George Mitchell. He intended for the patrons to ride the escalator as if traveling from the Lower Nile to the Upper Nile. When Amy and I arrived to the top of the escalator, Amy pointed up at the ceiling. Above us, was the night sky. Zodiacal figures and constellations were carved within the stone, crammed by a decorative frieze of palm fronds, giving the department store a temple-like atmosphere.
This was after all a place of worship for consumers.
Mitchell's renovation and architecture on the Harrod's escalator was later listed by English Heritage. This meant that it can never be altered.
Talk about being immortalized within Harrods of all places.
If everything that I told you earlier about how much fun kitschiness is, Harrods was the polar opposite of all things kitschy.
If anything, it was more conservative, well planned and well thought out. However, whereas kitschiness brought back memories from the past, Harrods provided a vision of the future.
And apparently, it was the kind of future I couldn't afford.
Everything was so clean when Amy and I explored each room within the store. There were 28 upscale restaurants within the store and 330 departments spread all over all the 7 floors. Harrods version of a "food court" reminded me of an indoor version of the shops and bakeries in Beverly Hills. Colorful macaroons were stacked on top of one another to form a macaroon cake in one of the display windows, tea sets for the tea rooms were a shining pearl white with tiny rose crowning the the rim, and candy shops exhibited their new imported chocolate from Switzerland.
This was what the future would look like. No more free samples. Just food display behind clean glass cases, temping you to buy them. If Costco was the past, Harrods was some oddly formed please-do-not-tap-on-the-glass future.
Oh, and chandeliers in every room, hanging on every ceiling.
Because in this future, we all apparently wear a monocle.
To add on to how over-the-top Harrods could be, Amy and I went down The Egyptian Escalator to the bottom floor and came face-to-face with the memorial statue of Princess Diana and Dodi Al-Fayed.
I remember reading about this statue back in 2005 when I re-read my mom's old copies of People Magazine. It was an 8-foot bronze statue showing Princess Diana and Dodi dancing beneath the wings of an albatross. It was erected for what would have been Princess Diana's 50th birthday. At the base, the words "Innocent Victims" was inscribed. The guy who designed the statue: William George Mitchell – the same guy who immortalized his work through The Egyptian Escalator.
But why was there a memorial dedicated to Princess Diana and Dodi in Harrods of all places?
In 1985, the chairman of Harrods was Mohamed Al-Fayed, a successful Egyptian businessman. His eldest son, Dodi helped with the marketing at Harrods and would later date the Princess of Wales. He also died in the car crash that ended up killing Princess Diana. Since their deaths, Mohamed Al-Fayed commissioned Mitchell to construct two memorials inside of Harrods to the couple.
The first, was in 1998. The photographs of both Diana and Dodi were behind a pyramid-shaped display that held the engagement ring Dodi purchased the day before they died. The second, was the statue.
"I wonder what the royal family must think of this," I told Amy as we both examined the statue and the engagement ring.
"They're probably not that thrilled about this," she said.
They weren't. It was true.
Once Mitchell revealed the first memorial, the royal family had slowly ceased their shopping at Harrods. But when the statue was officially displayed at Harrods, a total and complete stop at shopping at Harrods was enforced. Most likely because the statue's inscription, Innocent Victims, implied Mohamed Al-Fayed 's accusations that Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, had ordered the deaths of Princess Diana and his son.
Offended, the royal family removed their coat of arms from Harrods and refused to shop there ever since. Qatar Holdings – the current owners of Harrods – were considering removing both memorials if it it meant getting the royal family to start shopping at their store again, except that both memorials were popular among the common people.
"What do you think of it?" Amy asked me.
As a voracious royal historian, there's a lot of things that have made me sad when I go back to read about the great people who've ruled the United Kingdom.
I feel sad whenever I think about how Catherine of Aragon got screwed over by Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. I get upset whenever I am reminded that Lady Jane Grey was beheaded. And Margaret Pole. And Mary, Queen of Scots. I am frustrated with myself that there was nothing anyone could do to save Prince Albert's life. And I am angry at what happened to Princess Diana, how unfair her death was and how much better her life could have been if she hadn't married Charles.
When I was in middle school, I bought two books from a library sale. One was titled, Diana, Princess of Wales: A Biography by Penny Junor. The book was white, and it made Princess Diana's eyes on the cover look electrifyingly blue. The second, was a bright red cover with a black and white torn photograph of Princess Diana, titled, Death of a Princess: The Investigation by Thomas Sancton and Scott MacLeod.
I read the Penny Junor novel first. It was published in 1984, three years after Princess Diana's fairytale wedding to Prince Charles. What distressed me the most about Junor's biography was the fact that her writing was so positive and astoundingly cheerful that every sentence was enough for a pessimist like myself to gag on. She wrote about how lucky Diana was to be married to such a handsome and dashing prince like Charles, and how she was head-over-heels in love with Charles. The biography sounded like a too perfect love story, and ended with Diana and Charles riding off into the sunset after their marriage. No mention of Camilla Parker Bowles. Then twelve years later, Diana and Charles divorced.
I picked up Death of a Princess next, and was received with much confusion and concern from my English teacher, Lisa when she saw me bring the book into her classroom. Death of a Princess was more of a book dedicated to those who believed in the conspiracy theory that the royal family had Diana and Dodi killed in Paris. I thought it only fair to read a novel that was entirely on the opposite side of the spectrum of Junor's book. It casted the royal family in a more negative light and gave multiple reasons as to why the royal family would want them dead. The biggest theory was that Diana was pregnant with Dodi's child, and that a child born with a Catholic mother and an Islamic father would paint the monarchy in a negative light.
"I didn't know you thought that the Queen of England was capable of such cruelty," Lisa said to me when I explained to her what the book was about.
"Oh trust me," I said to her. "She has more important things like buying a new corgi than plotting Diana and Dodi's death. I'm just reading this to hear what the other side has to say."
The novel was published in 1998, a year after her and Dodi's death. All I remember after finishing Sancton and McLeod's book was how angry people were at the royal family. Even if they had nothing to do with Diana and Dodi's death, they still blamed them for forcing Diana into a loveless marriage with Charles, plus the domino effect that lead to her death in Paris.
I admittedly was even angry at the royal family. Mainly because this forced marriage didn't happen during the Plantagenets reign when everyone was killing and marrying each other for the throne of England. It didn't even happen during the Tudor dynasty when Henry will divorcing and killing his wives left to right.
Instead, it happened in the 90's.
And even though there was no War of the Roses and no English Reformation, someone still died.
The memorial doesn't quite help though. I could understand people coming down to Harrods to visit the memorial and view it as a father's tribute to losing his son and future daughter-in-law. But for me, it was Mohamed Al-Fayed's big 'F**K YOU" to the British monarchy. Fine, you ostracized her when she divorced Charles. Now she and my son are dead so now here's the respect you should've given her when she was alive. Not to mention that this big "F**K YOU" is also located in the middle of the mecca of all department stores.
It doesn't do Diana justice.
My advice, if you wanted to see a real memorial for Princess Diana, to get real emotional over, take a trip up to Althorp – the Spencer family estate in Northhampshire, England. There, you won't find a ridiculously huge shopping mall. Instead you'll find sprawling acres of green, and pastoral views. But more importantly, you will also find the burial site of Princess Diana. Her final resting place is on an island in the center of Lake Round Oval. There's no 8-foot bronze statue, no picture of Diana and no engagement ring on display. Instead, from afar and across the lake, you can see an urn but not a headstone or a grave site. Better yet, no visitors are allowed to set foot on the island. It's quiet, it's peaceful, it's in the middle of nature.
I turned to Amy.
"Honestly, this statue is kinda kitschy."
BUT.
That's an entirely different story for another time.
London was sprawled with these little kitsch attractions. And maybe the reason why I was so attracted to all of this tackiness was because they reminded me somewhat of home.
Like Bob's Big Boy restaurant in Burbank, or Ruby's restaurant in San Diego; even Hollywood Boulevard with their sidewalk characters mulling and congesting the front of the Chinese Theater always made me wish I took a picture with that Groucho Marx look-alike back in the Summer of 2009.
Kitschiness has a strange enduring power over people – or maybe it's just for people like me. Like a lava lamp, the prime example of the kitschiness of the sixties. Although, who owns a lava lamp nowadays in the age of AppleWatch and Netflix? Yet, we like tacky items like these, most likely because it gives us a strange sense of escapism or nostalgia, reminding us of a time that has long since past, or an age that we've wished we've lived through. A good modern example of kitschiness is whenever you stumble across those Buzzfeed quizzes on your Newsfeed that could calculate what percent 90's kids you were.
What was your most favorite 90's toy? Was it Ferby? Tamagotchi? Polly Pocket? Or maybe even Beanie Babies?
In London, I loved walking Southbank and passing by The London Dungeon. It was so full of kitschiness because all of the actors would be outside dressed up like Guy Fawkes, Jack the Ripper and Sweeney Todd coaxing people into their attraction of doom. Even at Hampton Court, someone would be dressed up as King Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn or Cardinal Wolsey, milling before the tourists to act out the actions of their historic counterparts.
One day, I was with my friend Amy when she suggested that we go out to Kensington to check out this department store called Harrods."Oh good," I told her, when we got off the Piccadilly Line. "I need to buy a hairdryer."
"Trust me, this isn't a normal department store that we're going to."
Boy was she right.
Harrods towered over us like some Ottoman Empire fortress, or a long forgotten Russian palace. The building itself took over the whole entire block in front of us. As if its grandeur size wasn't enough to intimidate me, the department store boasted its palatial style, featuring a frontage clad in terracotta tiles adorned with cherubs, swirling Art Nouveau windows and topped with a baroque-style dome. People were strolling through the doors, leaving the department store with dark green plastic bags – the store's name dashed in gold on the front for everyone to see.
And I thought The Americana, The Promenade and The Grove were the nicest shopping centers I've been too back in California. But I guess in England, Harrods excels all three of those places.
"It's the world's most prestigious department store," Amy tells me as we walk in, a blast of cool air greeting us as we enter the makeup department. "There's nothing like it in the world."
"Most prestigious" in my books was whenever there was a Sabarro's in the food court section of the mall. But here at Harrods, they had their own little grocery store inside the building.
As I would later come to find out, Harrods was nothing that I've seen before. To modern California eyes like my own, the place was absolutely absurd. Yet, Amy and I had to squeeze past people with their own entourage accompanying them, and we had to wait our turn to ride the escalators – because someone high up in the British government was in the shoe department currently buying his wife a new pair of Louboutins for her birthday. The place was packed with people, tourists like Amy and I dressed in our shorts and tank tops, while a good majority of the other people that populated the store were elderly women wearing Alexander McQueen cardigans or Givenchy pantsuits.If the department store marvels in the United States came into being when Eisenhower was president, Harrods represents the time before the Romanov's were assassinated. Established in 1824, Harrods was founded by twenty-five year-old Charles Henry Harrod who originally sold his groceries in Knightsbridge. There was only a £20 turnover per week, but thankfully good old Charles Henry Harrod made a good investment in setting up shop in the Kensington area, because by the 1850's Knightsbridge rapidly grew into one of the most fashionable parts of London. By 1860, Charles's son took over the business – Charles Digby Harrod. and by 1868, the shop suddenly had a turnover that rose to £1,000 per week. Thanks to Charles Digby Harrod, this grand surplus of money helped him expand Harrods to the business that it is today. A surge of thriving retail, perfume stations and pharmaceutical distribution was added to the successful Harrods.
And Charles Digby didn't stop there to usher people into entering his shop.
In 1898, Charles Digby debuted the first escalator at Harrods. If that wasn't pretentious enough, nervous customers were offered brandy at the top of the escalator to revive them after the "moving staircase" carried them up a flight in the department store.
The escalator today – once Amy and I finally got a chance to ride on – is now called The Egyptian Escalator. The dude who renovated the escalator was William George Mitchell. He intended for the patrons to ride the escalator as if traveling from the Lower Nile to the Upper Nile. When Amy and I arrived to the top of the escalator, Amy pointed up at the ceiling. Above us, was the night sky. Zodiacal figures and constellations were carved within the stone, crammed by a decorative frieze of palm fronds, giving the department store a temple-like atmosphere. This was after all a place of worship for consumers.
Mitchell's renovation and architecture on the Harrod's escalator was later listed by English Heritage. This meant that it can never be altered.
Talk about being immortalized within Harrods of all places.
If everything that I told you earlier about how much fun kitschiness is, Harrods was the polar opposite of all things kitschy.If anything, it was more conservative, well planned and well thought out. However, whereas kitschiness brought back memories from the past, Harrods provided a vision of the future.
And apparently, it was the kind of future I couldn't afford.
Everything was so clean when Amy and I explored each room within the store. There were 28 upscale restaurants within the store and 330 departments spread all over all the 7 floors. Harrods version of a "food court" reminded me of an indoor version of the shops and bakeries in Beverly Hills. Colorful macaroons were stacked on top of one another to form a macaroon cake in one of the display windows, tea sets for the tea rooms were a shining pearl white with tiny rose crowning the the rim, and candy shops exhibited their new imported chocolate from Switzerland.
This was what the future would look like. No more free samples. Just food display behind clean glass cases, temping you to buy them. If Costco was the past, Harrods was some oddly formed please-do-not-tap-on-the-glass future.
Oh, and chandeliers in every room, hanging on every ceiling.
Because in this future, we all apparently wear a monocle.
To add on to how over-the-top Harrods could be, Amy and I went down The Egyptian Escalator to the bottom floor and came face-to-face with the memorial statue of Princess Diana and Dodi Al-Fayed. I remember reading about this statue back in 2005 when I re-read my mom's old copies of People Magazine. It was an 8-foot bronze statue showing Princess Diana and Dodi dancing beneath the wings of an albatross. It was erected for what would have been Princess Diana's 50th birthday. At the base, the words "Innocent Victims" was inscribed. The guy who designed the statue: William George Mitchell – the same guy who immortalized his work through The Egyptian Escalator.
But why was there a memorial dedicated to Princess Diana and Dodi in Harrods of all places?
In 1985, the chairman of Harrods was Mohamed Al-Fayed, a successful Egyptian businessman. His eldest son, Dodi helped with the marketing at Harrods and would later date the Princess of Wales. He also died in the car crash that ended up killing Princess Diana. Since their deaths, Mohamed Al-Fayed commissioned Mitchell to construct two memorials inside of Harrods to the couple.
The first, was in 1998. The photographs of both Diana and Dodi were behind a pyramid-shaped display that held the engagement ring Dodi purchased the day before they died. The second, was the statue.
"I wonder what the royal family must think of this," I told Amy as we both examined the statue and the engagement ring. "They're probably not that thrilled about this," she said.
They weren't. It was true.
Once Mitchell revealed the first memorial, the royal family had slowly ceased their shopping at Harrods. But when the statue was officially displayed at Harrods, a total and complete stop at shopping at Harrods was enforced. Most likely because the statue's inscription, Innocent Victims, implied Mohamed Al-Fayed 's accusations that Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, had ordered the deaths of Princess Diana and his son.
Offended, the royal family removed their coat of arms from Harrods and refused to shop there ever since. Qatar Holdings – the current owners of Harrods – were considering removing both memorials if it it meant getting the royal family to start shopping at their store again, except that both memorials were popular among the common people.
"What do you think of it?" Amy asked me.As a voracious royal historian, there's a lot of things that have made me sad when I go back to read about the great people who've ruled the United Kingdom.
I feel sad whenever I think about how Catherine of Aragon got screwed over by Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. I get upset whenever I am reminded that Lady Jane Grey was beheaded. And Margaret Pole. And Mary, Queen of Scots. I am frustrated with myself that there was nothing anyone could do to save Prince Albert's life. And I am angry at what happened to Princess Diana, how unfair her death was and how much better her life could have been if she hadn't married Charles.
When I was in middle school, I bought two books from a library sale. One was titled, Diana, Princess of Wales: A Biography by Penny Junor. The book was white, and it made Princess Diana's eyes on the cover look electrifyingly blue. The second, was a bright red cover with a black and white torn photograph of Princess Diana, titled, Death of a Princess: The Investigation by Thomas Sancton and Scott MacLeod.
I read the Penny Junor novel first. It was published in 1984, three years after Princess Diana's fairytale wedding to Prince Charles. What distressed me the most about Junor's biography was the fact that her writing was so positive and astoundingly cheerful that every sentence was enough for a pessimist like myself to gag on. She wrote about how lucky Diana was to be married to such a handsome and dashing prince like Charles, and how she was head-over-heels in love with Charles. The biography sounded like a too perfect love story, and ended with Diana and Charles riding off into the sunset after their marriage. No mention of Camilla Parker Bowles. Then twelve years later, Diana and Charles divorced.
I picked up Death of a Princess next, and was received with much confusion and concern from my English teacher, Lisa when she saw me bring the book into her classroom. Death of a Princess was more of a book dedicated to those who believed in the conspiracy theory that the royal family had Diana and Dodi killed in Paris. I thought it only fair to read a novel that was entirely on the opposite side of the spectrum of Junor's book. It casted the royal family in a more negative light and gave multiple reasons as to why the royal family would want them dead. The biggest theory was that Diana was pregnant with Dodi's child, and that a child born with a Catholic mother and an Islamic father would paint the monarchy in a negative light.
"I didn't know you thought that the Queen of England was capable of such cruelty," Lisa said to me when I explained to her what the book was about.
"Oh trust me," I said to her. "She has more important things like buying a new corgi than plotting Diana and Dodi's death. I'm just reading this to hear what the other side has to say."
The novel was published in 1998, a year after her and Dodi's death. All I remember after finishing Sancton and McLeod's book was how angry people were at the royal family. Even if they had nothing to do with Diana and Dodi's death, they still blamed them for forcing Diana into a loveless marriage with Charles, plus the domino effect that lead to her death in Paris.
I admittedly was even angry at the royal family. Mainly because this forced marriage didn't happen during the Plantagenets reign when everyone was killing and marrying each other for the throne of England. It didn't even happen during the Tudor dynasty when Henry will divorcing and killing his wives left to right. Instead, it happened in the 90's.
And even though there was no War of the Roses and no English Reformation, someone still died.
The memorial doesn't quite help though. I could understand people coming down to Harrods to visit the memorial and view it as a father's tribute to losing his son and future daughter-in-law. But for me, it was Mohamed Al-Fayed's big 'F**K YOU" to the British monarchy. Fine, you ostracized her when she divorced Charles. Now she and my son are dead so now here's the respect you should've given her when she was alive. Not to mention that this big "F**K YOU" is also located in the middle of the mecca of all department stores.
It doesn't do Diana justice.
My advice, if you wanted to see a real memorial for Princess Diana, to get real emotional over, take a trip up to Althorp – the Spencer family estate in Northhampshire, England. There, you won't find a ridiculously huge shopping mall. Instead you'll find sprawling acres of green, and pastoral views. But more importantly, you will also find the burial site of Princess Diana. Her final resting place is on an island in the center of Lake Round Oval. There's no 8-foot bronze statue, no picture of Diana and no engagement ring on display. Instead, from afar and across the lake, you can see an urn but not a headstone or a grave site. Better yet, no visitors are allowed to set foot on the island. It's quiet, it's peaceful, it's in the middle of nature.
I turned to Amy.
"Honestly, this statue is kinda kitschy."
April 30, 2016
Happy at Hampton
The reason why I started crying on the train from Waterloo Station to Surrey, was because the station sign read: Hampton Court. And as if I wasn't already a pool of overwhelmed emotions, I had an absolute sob fest when I stopped in front of the driveway to Hampton Court Palace.
"Take it easy, it's just a palace," Sarah told me when we waited in line to buy our tickets at the visitor's center.
My friend Sarah was spending her Spring Break from Brown University in London. She was staying with me for a week and a half and wanted to explore all of the nooks and crannies that London had to offer. Although, I think poor Sarah underestimated how deep my love for royal history went when I was placed in my English-based element. Back when we were teenagers, living in California, Sarah was fully aware of my unhealthy obsession with all of Philippa Gregory's Tudor novels. But now that I was actually here in London and living a 15 minute train ride from where all of these kings and queens from England lived and died, I essentially dragged her around London and became her overly informative tour guide. We took selfies in front of Buckingham Palace, walked past the Tower of London, and later in the week I was planning on taking her to visit Kensington Palace where Queen Victoria was born. We even discussed taking a trip out to visit Windsor Castle, and it took every fiber in my body to not express how intently jealous I was of Queen Elizabeth's corgis for roaming free around her castle. Alas, I think my enthusiasm scared Sarah away from visiting there.
At least with me.
But today we were visiting Hampton Court Palace and I was freaking the f**k out. We've might as well have gone back in time to Henry VIII's reign.
It was here at Hampton Court where everything Tudor drama related happened.
Like, EVERYTHING!
Sarah and I flashed our tickets to the guards in front of the palace and walked through the gates of Hampton Court.
I craned my neck back to take in the the brick red arches of the palace's courtyard. Originally, Hampton Court was built by Cardinal Wolsey, Henry's then chief advisor. He chose to build Hampton Court with soft Tudor bricks rather than stone because he wanted to make a clear statement to express his wealth and status as the most important cleric of England at the time. Of course, that was back when Hampton Court was his home and when he was still in the king's favor.
I had to give it to the Cardinal. For a man who was to live a pious and simple life, the guy had some extravagant tastes. What added some character to brickwork was the fact that not all of the bricks were red. The bricks were relatively ranging in color from orange and red to purple and brown. Most of the archways Sarah and I walked under reminded me of those dark, over-the fire bricks, giving you the feeling that you've should have been standing in the Weasley's fireplace with a handful of floo powder.
Sarah and I poked our heads into the Tudor kitchens. The kitchen reached from the first courtyard through one or two twisting walkways, reminding me that Hampton Court's history was much more complex than being just a family's home. The high, curved ceiling resembled the same arched stroke that a baker would make when applying white frosting to a cake. More so, the light that flooded from the windows illuminated the soaring height of the kitchen's rooms. It was filled with wooden tables, wine barrels, pots and pans, fake carcasses of dead deer and wild boar.
With a kitchen as grand as the one at Hampton Court it actually explained a lot about Henry's diet. He was an obvious consumer of food. And a hell of a lot of it.
After Sarah kicked around a historic plastic bottle of Coke, we headed back to the courtyard. That was when I notice the clock on the gatehouse to one of the towers. It was a pre-Copernican and pre-Galilean astronomical clock built in 1540.
It's still functioning.
The clock's blue and golden face crowned the center of the red brick structure of the palace, like a cyclopes's eye.
"Wow, I guess Henry knew how to live like a king here," Sarah said as we entered Henry VIII's apartments and admired the wooden hammer-beam ceiling.
"You mean Cardinal Wolsey," I said, trying to keep the overexcitement out of my voice of correcting and educating Sarah about my knowledge about this place. "It use to belong the Wolsey before he fell out of favor with the king."
"Are you serious?" Sarah turned to me. "The king just one day turned his back on Wolsey and took over his home? This home?"
"Yup." I answered, as I admired the tapestries. "That's what you get when you fail to grant the King of England a divorce."
Because if you were Wolsey, and you lived in a lavish place like Hampton Court, you were expected the get shit done. And Wolsey made sure that whatever task the king gave him, he would get it done. When he was promoted as Henry's chief minister, he mustered up the money for ships and supplies when England went to war with France in 1513. Then in 1520, Wolsey directed the elaborate preparations of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the most magnificent European summit ever held. He was a miracle worker for the king. However, the more accomplishments Wolsey performed for the king, the more the king relied on him to make the impossible possible.
The problem was that even Wolsey himself thought that he could get anything done for the king. So much so that Wolsey was even accused of going too far in his accomplishments with the king and "imagined himself the equal of sovereigns." As long as Wolsey could keep the king happy, he was happy.
Until, you know, Anne Boleyn showed up and f**ked everything up.
"Come on, let's check what's in the next room," Sarah said, beginning to walk away.
"What?"
I was currently savoring a very rare moment of watching a man dress up as Cardinal Wolsey roam the apartments. A couple of tourists were following him as Wolsey – a curator at Hampton Court – reminisced about the "good old days" when Hampton Court was his own personal home and how he and Thomas Cromwell were such great pals.
I really wanted to give Wolsey a high-five. Not because he was extraordinary in Tudor history, but just because I wanted to pretend that I was actually giving the real Cardinal Wolsey a high-five.
I only gave him a thumbs up as I followed Sarah down the hallway.
We passed several hung portraits of Henry, followed by a wall that depicted the portraits of each of Henry's relatives. One was of Elizabeth of York, another of his grandmother, Margaret Beaufort and then of his father, King Henry VII – the man who killed Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field.
What history. What obstacles Henry's family had to overcome to wear the English crown.
"This is where it all began," I said to Sarah staring at the wall in awe. "This is how Henry became the King of England. It was because of these people! His family! This is the start to the Tudor Dynasty! My God! Do you know about The War of the Roses?"
"Yeah," Sarah replied slowly, preparing herself for an explosion of over-the-top of information.
"The Lancaster and the Yorks!" I went on. "If Elizabeth Woodville hadn't married Edward IV then Elizabeth of York wouldn't have been born. Or, and get this, if Henry VII had died at the Battle of Bosworth Field, she would've had to marry Richard III. That was her father's brother! That was her UNCLE! If she had married him, Henry would've never been born. Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard would've never gotten their heads lopped off! Jane Seymour would've never given birth to Edward VI and died. Catherine of Aragon would've never been divorced. Anne of Cleaves would've never left Germany. And Catherine Parr would've gone right ahead and marry Thomas Seymour. Oh, what would history have been like if Henry was never born! No Queen Elizabeth! No Church of England! Oh, can't you image that, Sarah? All of that glorious history about sex and death, gone because a man like Henry was never brought into this world."
"Yeah." Sarah again, said slowly. "I can't even begin to imagine."
Sarah has to force my eyes away from the wall of Henry's relatives in order to keep us moving around the palace.
I was still processing my shock of the delicacy of the Tudor dynasty.
Henry actually wasn't suppose to be the King of England. He had an older brother named Arthur who was declared the Prince of Wales. Arthur was the heir. Henry was the spare.
Arthur was viewed by the English people as the great hope of the newly established House of Tudor after Henry VII defeated Richard III. Arthur's mother, Elizabeth of York, and Arthur's birth cemented the union between the House of Tudor and the House of York. Nevertheless, Henry VII right to the English throne was constantly questioned. Many believed that the Princes in the Tower – Edward V and his younger brother Richard, younger brothers to Elizabeth of York and sons to Edward IV – were still alive and were waging a rebellion to overthrow Henry's rule. So in order to secure Arthur's inheritance to the English throne, he betrothed Arthur to the daughter of the most powerful Catholic monarchs in Spain in an effort to forge an Anglo-Spanish alliance against France. And the girl that was betrothed to Arthur?
Catherine of Aragon.
However, six months later into their marriage, Arthur suddenly died from an unknown ailment.
Later, Catherine would marry her deceased husband's brother. The future Henry VIII.
From there, it all went downhill.
For everyone.
I couldn't help but wonder what life would have been like if Arthur hadn't died. What kind of kingdom would have England been today if Henry never sat on the throne? What kind of children would've carried Catherine and Arthur's legacy?
Plus, as I recall the names to all the English monarchs, there was never a King Arthur. If Arthur had lived, he would've been the first of his name. His first born son would've taken his name and end up being crown as Arthur II.
Man, that would've been so cool.
"Jacqueline, come on! I want to see the Chapel Royal," Sarah commanded me.
As we stood underneath the Chapel Royal's blue and gold ceiling, I remembered that this whole palace wasn't just a historical location for "what-ifs."
Actual history happened here.
In 1537, Henry's much desired male heir, the future King Edward VI, was born here at Hampton Court. Unfortunately, this was also the same place Edward's mother, Jane Seymour died, two weeks later.
Then, in this very chapel Sarah and I were standing in, was the same spot where Henry was informed that his fifth wife, Catherine Howard was cheating on him with Thomas Culpepper.
Catherine was then confined to her room for a few days before being sent to Syon House, and then to the Tower of London for her execution.
"I read that apparently, Catherine Howard's ghost still haunts part of Hampton Court," I whispered to Sarah.
"Does she now?" I could hear the tiredness in Sarah's voice, as she tried to take in the beauty of the chapel and flush out my overly historical information.
"Yup. When Henry put her under house arrest in her room here at Hampton Court, she briefly escaped her guards and ran through the gallery, begging Henry to spare her life. But she was recaptured. Today, some of the staff members who work here at Hampton Court have claimed to have heard her screams from the gallery."
"Okay, now you're starting to creep me out," Sarah said with a shiver.
"Also, Henry's ghost is suppose to be around here somewhere too."
"Oh God," Sarah groaned, and she walked out of the chapel.
I tell Sarah as we walk outside and explore the palace grounds how Henry and Catherine Parr got married here. Catherine, the sixth and final wife of Henry VIII, was the first woman published in England. Before Henry, Catherine was already married twice to two different men. All of whom were twice her age. Once her second husband died, she was free to marry a man of her choice. At the time, she was in love with Thomas Seymour, Jane Seymour's brother. But before the two of them could get married, she caught Henry's eye.
Catherine's marriage to Henry wasn't necessarily a forced marriage, but rather an involuntary one. When Henry asked Catherine to marry him, she couldn't refuse a proposal by the King of England. So she reluctantly accepted him and was stuck married to him for four years until his death in 1547.
Four months after Henry's death, she was finally free to marry Thomas.
The contract to Catherine Parr's marriage to Henry was on display inside Hampton Court. There's even a written declaration on one of the walls that describes Henry's marriage to Catherine in her privy closet the morning of July 12th, 1543.
"He married her in her closet?" Sarah laughed. "What a romantic."
After spending the rest of the day taking selfies in front of Hampton Court and walking for an hour around the palace grounds, the guards announced that they would be planning on closing the gates in five minutes. Sarah and I had an hour to kill before our train would arrive to take us back to Waterloo Station, so we decided to go across the street to an Inn called The Mute Swan for some hot chocolate.
It was at this point that I was feeling the sob fest inside of me growing again. It was like I was leaving my house. Expect it wasn't my house at all, of course. But still, the pain of separating myself from something so beautiful was frightening. Thankfully, The Mute Swan looked directly across the street at Hampton Court, so it would only be a hour before I would have to tear my eyes away from Henry's home.
Sarah and I got a table and ordered our hot chocolates.
"So why Henry?" Sarah asked me as we stared out the window at Hampton Court, now a little red building in the distance. "Why are you so obsessed with that guy? He's like a psychopath."
"Oh he definitely is," I answered. "I guess I like him because he is a psychopath, you know. He sounds so fake like a character in a story. But he was never fake. That's the interesting part. He was real. He was a real person. And today when we were walking through the same hallways that he dominated back in the sixteenth century, I felt that realness."
Sarah leaned back in her chair. "Still, the guy was nuts."
"Yeah," I agreed. Our waitress came by and delivered us our hot chocolates. "But nuts or not, he lived at Hampton Court."
"Lucky bastard," Sarah laughed.
"Take it easy, it's just a palace," Sarah told me when we waited in line to buy our tickets at the visitor's center.
My friend Sarah was spending her Spring Break from Brown University in London. She was staying with me for a week and a half and wanted to explore all of the nooks and crannies that London had to offer. Although, I think poor Sarah underestimated how deep my love for royal history went when I was placed in my English-based element. Back when we were teenagers, living in California, Sarah was fully aware of my unhealthy obsession with all of Philippa Gregory's Tudor novels. But now that I was actually here in London and living a 15 minute train ride from where all of these kings and queens from England lived and died, I essentially dragged her around London and became her overly informative tour guide. We took selfies in front of Buckingham Palace, walked past the Tower of London, and later in the week I was planning on taking her to visit Kensington Palace where Queen Victoria was born. We even discussed taking a trip out to visit Windsor Castle, and it took every fiber in my body to not express how intently jealous I was of Queen Elizabeth's corgis for roaming free around her castle. Alas, I think my enthusiasm scared Sarah away from visiting there.
At least with me.
But today we were visiting Hampton Court Palace and I was freaking the f**k out. We've might as well have gone back in time to Henry VIII's reign.
It was here at Hampton Court where everything Tudor drama related happened. Like, EVERYTHING!
Sarah and I flashed our tickets to the guards in front of the palace and walked through the gates of Hampton Court.
I craned my neck back to take in the the brick red arches of the palace's courtyard. Originally, Hampton Court was built by Cardinal Wolsey, Henry's then chief advisor. He chose to build Hampton Court with soft Tudor bricks rather than stone because he wanted to make a clear statement to express his wealth and status as the most important cleric of England at the time. Of course, that was back when Hampton Court was his home and when he was still in the king's favor.
I had to give it to the Cardinal. For a man who was to live a pious and simple life, the guy had some extravagant tastes. What added some character to brickwork was the fact that not all of the bricks were red. The bricks were relatively ranging in color from orange and red to purple and brown. Most of the archways Sarah and I walked under reminded me of those dark, over-the fire bricks, giving you the feeling that you've should have been standing in the Weasley's fireplace with a handful of floo powder.
Sarah and I poked our heads into the Tudor kitchens. The kitchen reached from the first courtyard through one or two twisting walkways, reminding me that Hampton Court's history was much more complex than being just a family's home. The high, curved ceiling resembled the same arched stroke that a baker would make when applying white frosting to a cake. More so, the light that flooded from the windows illuminated the soaring height of the kitchen's rooms. It was filled with wooden tables, wine barrels, pots and pans, fake carcasses of dead deer and wild boar.With a kitchen as grand as the one at Hampton Court it actually explained a lot about Henry's diet. He was an obvious consumer of food. And a hell of a lot of it.
After Sarah kicked around a historic plastic bottle of Coke, we headed back to the courtyard. That was when I notice the clock on the gatehouse to one of the towers. It was a pre-Copernican and pre-Galilean astronomical clock built in 1540.
It's still functioning.
The clock's blue and golden face crowned the center of the red brick structure of the palace, like a cyclopes's eye.
"Wow, I guess Henry knew how to live like a king here," Sarah said as we entered Henry VIII's apartments and admired the wooden hammer-beam ceiling.
"You mean Cardinal Wolsey," I said, trying to keep the overexcitement out of my voice of correcting and educating Sarah about my knowledge about this place. "It use to belong the Wolsey before he fell out of favor with the king."
"Are you serious?" Sarah turned to me. "The king just one day turned his back on Wolsey and took over his home? This home?"
"Yup." I answered, as I admired the tapestries. "That's what you get when you fail to grant the King of England a divorce."
Because if you were Wolsey, and you lived in a lavish place like Hampton Court, you were expected the get shit done. And Wolsey made sure that whatever task the king gave him, he would get it done. When he was promoted as Henry's chief minister, he mustered up the money for ships and supplies when England went to war with France in 1513. Then in 1520, Wolsey directed the elaborate preparations of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the most magnificent European summit ever held. He was a miracle worker for the king. However, the more accomplishments Wolsey performed for the king, the more the king relied on him to make the impossible possible. The problem was that even Wolsey himself thought that he could get anything done for the king. So much so that Wolsey was even accused of going too far in his accomplishments with the king and "imagined himself the equal of sovereigns." As long as Wolsey could keep the king happy, he was happy.
Until, you know, Anne Boleyn showed up and f**ked everything up.
"Come on, let's check what's in the next room," Sarah said, beginning to walk away."What?"
I was currently savoring a very rare moment of watching a man dress up as Cardinal Wolsey roam the apartments. A couple of tourists were following him as Wolsey – a curator at Hampton Court – reminisced about the "good old days" when Hampton Court was his own personal home and how he and Thomas Cromwell were such great pals.
I really wanted to give Wolsey a high-five. Not because he was extraordinary in Tudor history, but just because I wanted to pretend that I was actually giving the real Cardinal Wolsey a high-five.
I only gave him a thumbs up as I followed Sarah down the hallway.
We passed several hung portraits of Henry, followed by a wall that depicted the portraits of each of Henry's relatives. One was of Elizabeth of York, another of his grandmother, Margaret Beaufort and then of his father, King Henry VII – the man who killed Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field.
What history. What obstacles Henry's family had to overcome to wear the English crown.
"This is where it all began," I said to Sarah staring at the wall in awe. "This is how Henry became the King of England. It was because of these people! His family! This is the start to the Tudor Dynasty! My God! Do you know about The War of the Roses?"
"Yeah," Sarah replied slowly, preparing herself for an explosion of over-the-top of information.
"The Lancaster and the Yorks!" I went on. "If Elizabeth Woodville hadn't married Edward IV then Elizabeth of York wouldn't have been born. Or, and get this, if Henry VII had died at the Battle of Bosworth Field, she would've had to marry Richard III. That was her father's brother! That was her UNCLE! If she had married him, Henry would've never been born. Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard would've never gotten their heads lopped off! Jane Seymour would've never given birth to Edward VI and died. Catherine of Aragon would've never been divorced. Anne of Cleaves would've never left Germany. And Catherine Parr would've gone right ahead and marry Thomas Seymour. Oh, what would history have been like if Henry was never born! No Queen Elizabeth! No Church of England! Oh, can't you image that, Sarah? All of that glorious history about sex and death, gone because a man like Henry was never brought into this world."
"Yeah." Sarah again, said slowly. "I can't even begin to imagine."
Sarah has to force my eyes away from the wall of Henry's relatives in order to keep us moving around the palace. I was still processing my shock of the delicacy of the Tudor dynasty.
Henry actually wasn't suppose to be the King of England. He had an older brother named Arthur who was declared the Prince of Wales. Arthur was the heir. Henry was the spare.
Arthur was viewed by the English people as the great hope of the newly established House of Tudor after Henry VII defeated Richard III. Arthur's mother, Elizabeth of York, and Arthur's birth cemented the union between the House of Tudor and the House of York. Nevertheless, Henry VII right to the English throne was constantly questioned. Many believed that the Princes in the Tower – Edward V and his younger brother Richard, younger brothers to Elizabeth of York and sons to Edward IV – were still alive and were waging a rebellion to overthrow Henry's rule. So in order to secure Arthur's inheritance to the English throne, he betrothed Arthur to the daughter of the most powerful Catholic monarchs in Spain in an effort to forge an Anglo-Spanish alliance against France. And the girl that was betrothed to Arthur?
Catherine of Aragon.
However, six months later into their marriage, Arthur suddenly died from an unknown ailment.
Later, Catherine would marry her deceased husband's brother. The future Henry VIII.
From there, it all went downhill.
For everyone.
I couldn't help but wonder what life would have been like if Arthur hadn't died. What kind of kingdom would have England been today if Henry never sat on the throne? What kind of children would've carried Catherine and Arthur's legacy?
Plus, as I recall the names to all the English monarchs, there was never a King Arthur. If Arthur had lived, he would've been the first of his name. His first born son would've taken his name and end up being crown as Arthur II.
Man, that would've been so cool.
"Jacqueline, come on! I want to see the Chapel Royal," Sarah commanded me.
As we stood underneath the Chapel Royal's blue and gold ceiling, I remembered that this whole palace wasn't just a historical location for "what-ifs." Actual history happened here.
In 1537, Henry's much desired male heir, the future King Edward VI, was born here at Hampton Court. Unfortunately, this was also the same place Edward's mother, Jane Seymour died, two weeks later.
Then, in this very chapel Sarah and I were standing in, was the same spot where Henry was informed that his fifth wife, Catherine Howard was cheating on him with Thomas Culpepper.
Catherine was then confined to her room for a few days before being sent to Syon House, and then to the Tower of London for her execution.
"I read that apparently, Catherine Howard's ghost still haunts part of Hampton Court," I whispered to Sarah.
"Does she now?" I could hear the tiredness in Sarah's voice, as she tried to take in the beauty of the chapel and flush out my overly historical information.
"Yup. When Henry put her under house arrest in her room here at Hampton Court, she briefly escaped her guards and ran through the gallery, begging Henry to spare her life. But she was recaptured. Today, some of the staff members who work here at Hampton Court have claimed to have heard her screams from the gallery."
"Okay, now you're starting to creep me out," Sarah said with a shiver.
"Also, Henry's ghost is suppose to be around here somewhere too."
"Oh God," Sarah groaned, and she walked out of the chapel.
I tell Sarah as we walk outside and explore the palace grounds how Henry and Catherine Parr got married here. Catherine, the sixth and final wife of Henry VIII, was the first woman published in England. Before Henry, Catherine was already married twice to two different men. All of whom were twice her age. Once her second husband died, she was free to marry a man of her choice. At the time, she was in love with Thomas Seymour, Jane Seymour's brother. But before the two of them could get married, she caught Henry's eye. Catherine's marriage to Henry wasn't necessarily a forced marriage, but rather an involuntary one. When Henry asked Catherine to marry him, she couldn't refuse a proposal by the King of England. So she reluctantly accepted him and was stuck married to him for four years until his death in 1547.
Four months after Henry's death, she was finally free to marry Thomas.
The contract to Catherine Parr's marriage to Henry was on display inside Hampton Court. There's even a written declaration on one of the walls that describes Henry's marriage to Catherine in her privy closet the morning of July 12th, 1543.
"He married her in her closet?" Sarah laughed. "What a romantic."
After spending the rest of the day taking selfies in front of Hampton Court and walking for an hour around the palace grounds, the guards announced that they would be planning on closing the gates in five minutes. Sarah and I had an hour to kill before our train would arrive to take us back to Waterloo Station, so we decided to go across the street to an Inn called The Mute Swan for some hot chocolate.It was at this point that I was feeling the sob fest inside of me growing again. It was like I was leaving my house. Expect it wasn't my house at all, of course. But still, the pain of separating myself from something so beautiful was frightening. Thankfully, The Mute Swan looked directly across the street at Hampton Court, so it would only be a hour before I would have to tear my eyes away from Henry's home.
Sarah and I got a table and ordered our hot chocolates.
"So why Henry?" Sarah asked me as we stared out the window at Hampton Court, now a little red building in the distance. "Why are you so obsessed with that guy? He's like a psychopath."
"Oh he definitely is," I answered. "I guess I like him because he is a psychopath, you know. He sounds so fake like a character in a story. But he was never fake. That's the interesting part. He was real. He was a real person. And today when we were walking through the same hallways that he dominated back in the sixteenth century, I felt that realness."
Sarah leaned back in her chair. "Still, the guy was nuts."
"Yeah," I agreed. Our waitress came by and delivered us our hot chocolates. "But nuts or not, he lived at Hampton Court."
"Lucky bastard," Sarah laughed.
March 31, 2016
The Sad Mistake of Teaching American Beer Pong to Native Brits
One night, my flatmates and I got drunk and ordered a beer pong table off from Amazon.
To be absolutely honest, I thought that I had dreamed up the entire evening, until a few weeks later when I walked in and saw a massive package on our kitchen floor.
My American flatmate Jon – courtesy of Northwestern University – was on the ground folding out the legs to the table. Two of our flatmates, Mollie and Chloe – native to Great Britain – watched with fascination. Alice was also with us in the kitchen. She didn't live in our flat on Stanford Street. Instead, she lived on the floor below us and made frequent visits up to our flat to eat dinner with Chloe, her friend from college.*
My good friend – the first friend to whom I had made when I first moved into Stanford Street – Rachel, later came into the kitchen. She too thought that it had been a dream when we all drunkenly decided to pitch in the money to buy an American beer pong table for our tiny flat.
*High school in England is referred to as college. Whereas college is referred to as Uni.
Turns out it wasn't just the table that we bought off from Amazon.
Nope. We also invested on 50 red resumable solo cups and 50 orange ping pong balls like the true college kids that we were. At least while living abroad for both Jon and I.
Once Jon got the table all set up, the full length of the table was impossible to fit in our tiny kitchen unless we pushed the main circular table back against one of the corners of the room. So we set up the table in the middle of our hallway. However, the hallway was too narrow for us to play a serious game of beer pong so we took the affirmative action of pushing our table and all of our chairs in the kitchen against the side of the wall.
It was brilliant. At the time at least.
I didn't come across the Atlantic all the way from California just to brush up on my beer pong skills. It was September, and I had survived my first week in the United Kingdom.
I had adjusted to the 12 hour time difference, bought my books for my upcoming English classes, purchased some kitchen supplies and had apparently spent my first £20 on a drunken spending spree to purchase a crappy beer pong table for our flat.
And yet, I still didn't have any bedsheets.
This was before anyone told me about the shops on Oxford Street.
Besides that I had already explored a great deal of the city of London. I was overjoyed to know that my apartment was a five minute walk away from National Theatre. I had explored the Maughan Library – King's College's Library – and was entranced by its gothic architecture. London Fashion Week was taking place at Somerset House, a courtyard away from the main building where my classes would be held. Jon even took the initiative and invited everyone in the flat to wander around Borough Market before following him on the Tube to shop at Camden. I made a friend named Amy – who was also studying abroad from Northwestern – and she and I walked to Barbican Centre and then made our way to Kensington where we took to walking up and down the escalators at Harrods.
I guess I could have technically bought some bedsheets at Harrods, but everything at Harrods is ridiculously over priced.
Along with my dream to live the London life (I.E. Have Afternoon Tea with the Queen of England and her five corgis, bumping into Prince Harry and eloping with him, bumping into Tom Hiddleston and just marrying him right then and there, and going to Warner Brothers Studios to visit the sets to all of the Harry Potter movies) I guess Americanizing my British flatmates with a beer pong table is one of the central obligations of being an American abroad.
Essentially, from what I could piece together from our drunken night of shopping on Amazon, was that both Jon and I were appalled when we learned that none of our British flatmates had never played beer pong.
"We've seen them play it on American movies and TV," Chloe had told us. "But what exactly are the rules to beer pong?"
That question alone might have been our ticket to the deep end.
But at that moment, Jon and I weren't thinking about the consequences.
We were thinking that we were patriots, giving back to the British after we declared our independence from them.
Or something along the lines of that.
It's times like these when I start questioning my adulthood.
There's an art when it comes to playing beer pong. Since my frequent visits of spending time with my best friend Rowan at UCLA, I've learned that when it comes to beer pong you are either really good at it or not at all. I've also learned that the rules are constantly changing.
The general gameplay – as Jon explained to our British flatmates once the table, the beer and the cups were all setup – is when you have teams of two in which each team takes turns throwing a ping pong ball into the other team's cups. Once a ball lands in a cup, the cup is taken away and the opponent then drinks the contents of the cup. If both teammates hit cups, the balls are rolled back and they get to shoot again. The team that successfully hots all of the opponent's cups wins the game.
Then of course because there are so many variations on the game, you could incorporate rules like racks and bouncing, fingering and blowing, the Bitch Cup, or the Island Cup. And because Jon had played plenty of beer pong in the past he included ALL of those rules.
After Jon was done explain the rules, we challenged our British flatmates to a beer pong tournament. Alice and Chloe went first against Jon and I. Alice rolled the tiny orange ping pong ball between her palms before bolting the ball like a dart at one of Jon's solo cups. I remember that she wasn't really that good. Chloe was worse. She kept overthrowing the ball over Jon's head. When it was my turn I go in my basketball stance. It's really quite a habit of mine, especially since I played basketball for five years back in middle school and high school. So when I it comes to playing beer pong, I apply the same throwing technique. I place my left hand down, across in front of my chest and extend my shooting hand into the direction that want my ball to land.
It looks like I am making the letter "L" with both of my arms as I relax my wrist and lob the ball into the nearest cup from where Chloe was standing. I'm good at this. I'm not great. My god-sister Leah always told me that when playing beer pong, "The art is always in the arch." Considering that I was a moderately all right basketball player – when you're five foot three your basketball positions are very limited – I was a moderately okay beer pong player.
The fact that I can shoot a ball into a cup 33 inches away from me is a source of no small amount of pride. Plus, as I scored again and again against Alice, Chloe and then later Mollie, I could tell that they were irked by the fact that their poor beer pong skills was topped by an American girl.
I do have to admit though, when Jon and I played against Rachel, she was a much better player than our flatmates. She actually respected the "art of the arch" and scored several times.
So while we had this glorious beer pong table in our flat it seemed only natural to invite other people to come over to play beer pong as well. If anything it would give Alice, Chloe and Mollie a chance to practice their beer pong throws. Rachel was already way ahead of the curve. I guess they must learn about the "art of the arch" in nursing school.
Jon invited his Northwestern buddies over to our flat. Connor, Mel, my friend Amy and a whole handful of people squeezed into our tiny kitchen to spend an evening playing beer pong.
It was Brits vs. Americans.
Brits vs. Brits.
Americans vs. Americans.
It was an international coalition of beer pong players!
And while we hosted beer pong tournaments, pre-games or just flat our drunken soirées in our kitchen to our British flatmates and our acquaintances from the study abroad students from Northwestern University, there was a suddenly change in the atmosphere after the first week of having a beer pong table in our flat.
The first and obvious noticeable change was the sight. After getting wasted and staggering back to our rooms, the next morning we would wake up and find the entire kitchen in a disarray. It looked like someone had raided our kitchen, and threw red solo cups everywhere on the ground. Because we would force our kitchen table and our chairs to a corner of the room, there would be this massive ping pong table dominating the kitchen. I would have to climb over it or shove the damn table aside just to get to my cupboard of food and kitchen supplies underneath the sink.
Second was the smell. So much beer would be played every night on the beer pong table that the table itself was always sticky with the yeasty odor of the alcohol. The floor would be covered with it too. Worse, we would always reuse the red solo cups for other beer pong games and sometimes days would go by before we would realize that some of the cups were accumulating mold at the very bottom because no one thought of washing them.
The aftermath of the beer pong extravaganzas got so bad that two weeks went by without anyone cleaning the kitchen and I could start smelling the stench of beer from my door down the hall from the kitchen. And my room was the furthest away from the kitchen!
Interestingly enough, if you give a bunch of native Brits a beer pong table, they'll ask you the rules of the game. And in a matter of weeks, those native Brits will get really good at playing beer pong and practice and practice until they have achieved the "art of the arch." It was as if all of my British flatmates had dismissed their innate British ability of proper etiquette to go full out American wasted.
It's kinda the exact opposite of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.
When Jon and I demanded a rematch between Alice and Chloe three weeks into converting our tiny kitchen into a disgusting pigsty of beer slosh and mold, both girls played a fairly serious beer pong game. One night, we were playing against Mollie and Rachel and Mollie thew her ping pong ball into the Bitch Cup on our side. Jon had to down the entire cup – an unalloyed monster of vodka, rum and tequila.
The Brits laughed and laughed, Jon and I were already losing badly.
"Oh, what now you Yanks?" Alice yelled smugly out to Jon and I from across the beer pong table. "We're coming back to re-conoloize you. Yeah, that's right."
I think beer pong is game to encourage people to socialize together. What I like about it is that it's a display of talent. The game isn't whether you clear out all of the cups, it's a race as to whether you're talent as a shooter will last longer than the alcohol that is currently entering your system. It's not like basketball where its a game based solely on socially redeeming values. It's not a game where you exercise and throw a half court shot. Nope. Beer pong takes place under the loud hum of crappy fluorescent light bulbs or darkened basements or dorms at fraternity houses. Plus, you drink beer.
In other words, beer pong is a game that you play in your early to late twenties before you enter the adult world. While Jon and I were college juniors, our British flatmates were going to have three more years of nonstop drinking and partying until the real world would stick its ugly head in the doorway and usher them into figuring out how to adult.
For me, my life will always be full of shots. Not just shots I would have to make into someone's solo cup, but shots I would have to make to get the dream job that I want straight out of college, or the shot I will have to take when I am forced to rewrite a draft to one of my stories.
While my British flatmates felt the need to rush, to practice, to improve their tosses when it came to playing beer pong, I have come to appreciate the ease of beer pong. How light the ball feels in my hand when I throw it into my opponent's cup. How weightless that ball is, but how loud of an impact it makes when it flies perfectly into the cup.
Oh, and in case, anyone was wondering, I did eventually get some bed sheets later on that month on Oxford Street.
To be absolutely honest, I thought that I had dreamed up the entire evening, until a few weeks later when I walked in and saw a massive package on our kitchen floor.
My American flatmate Jon – courtesy of Northwestern University – was on the ground folding out the legs to the table. Two of our flatmates, Mollie and Chloe – native to Great Britain – watched with fascination. Alice was also with us in the kitchen. She didn't live in our flat on Stanford Street. Instead, she lived on the floor below us and made frequent visits up to our flat to eat dinner with Chloe, her friend from college.*
My good friend – the first friend to whom I had made when I first moved into Stanford Street – Rachel, later came into the kitchen. She too thought that it had been a dream when we all drunkenly decided to pitch in the money to buy an American beer pong table for our tiny flat.
*High school in England is referred to as college. Whereas college is referred to as Uni.
Turns out it wasn't just the table that we bought off from Amazon.Nope. We also invested on 50 red resumable solo cups and 50 orange ping pong balls like the true college kids that we were. At least while living abroad for both Jon and I.
Once Jon got the table all set up, the full length of the table was impossible to fit in our tiny kitchen unless we pushed the main circular table back against one of the corners of the room. So we set up the table in the middle of our hallway. However, the hallway was too narrow for us to play a serious game of beer pong so we took the affirmative action of pushing our table and all of our chairs in the kitchen against the side of the wall.
It was brilliant. At the time at least.
I didn't come across the Atlantic all the way from California just to brush up on my beer pong skills. It was September, and I had survived my first week in the United Kingdom.
I had adjusted to the 12 hour time difference, bought my books for my upcoming English classes, purchased some kitchen supplies and had apparently spent my first £20 on a drunken spending spree to purchase a crappy beer pong table for our flat.
And yet, I still didn't have any bedsheets.
This was before anyone told me about the shops on Oxford Street.
Besides that I had already explored a great deal of the city of London. I was overjoyed to know that my apartment was a five minute walk away from National Theatre. I had explored the Maughan Library – King's College's Library – and was entranced by its gothic architecture. London Fashion Week was taking place at Somerset House, a courtyard away from the main building where my classes would be held. Jon even took the initiative and invited everyone in the flat to wander around Borough Market before following him on the Tube to shop at Camden. I made a friend named Amy – who was also studying abroad from Northwestern – and she and I walked to Barbican Centre and then made our way to Kensington where we took to walking up and down the escalators at Harrods.
I guess I could have technically bought some bedsheets at Harrods, but everything at Harrods is ridiculously over priced.
Along with my dream to live the London life (I.E. Have Afternoon Tea with the Queen of England and her five corgis, bumping into Prince Harry and eloping with him, bumping into Tom Hiddleston and just marrying him right then and there, and going to Warner Brothers Studios to visit the sets to all of the Harry Potter movies) I guess Americanizing my British flatmates with a beer pong table is one of the central obligations of being an American abroad. Essentially, from what I could piece together from our drunken night of shopping on Amazon, was that both Jon and I were appalled when we learned that none of our British flatmates had never played beer pong.
"We've seen them play it on American movies and TV," Chloe had told us. "But what exactly are the rules to beer pong?"
That question alone might have been our ticket to the deep end.
But at that moment, Jon and I weren't thinking about the consequences.
We were thinking that we were patriots, giving back to the British after we declared our independence from them.
Or something along the lines of that.
It's times like these when I start questioning my adulthood.
There's an art when it comes to playing beer pong. Since my frequent visits of spending time with my best friend Rowan at UCLA, I've learned that when it comes to beer pong you are either really good at it or not at all. I've also learned that the rules are constantly changing. The general gameplay – as Jon explained to our British flatmates once the table, the beer and the cups were all setup – is when you have teams of two in which each team takes turns throwing a ping pong ball into the other team's cups. Once a ball lands in a cup, the cup is taken away and the opponent then drinks the contents of the cup. If both teammates hit cups, the balls are rolled back and they get to shoot again. The team that successfully hots all of the opponent's cups wins the game.
Then of course because there are so many variations on the game, you could incorporate rules like racks and bouncing, fingering and blowing, the Bitch Cup, or the Island Cup. And because Jon had played plenty of beer pong in the past he included ALL of those rules.
After Jon was done explain the rules, we challenged our British flatmates to a beer pong tournament. Alice and Chloe went first against Jon and I. Alice rolled the tiny orange ping pong ball between her palms before bolting the ball like a dart at one of Jon's solo cups. I remember that she wasn't really that good. Chloe was worse. She kept overthrowing the ball over Jon's head. When it was my turn I go in my basketball stance. It's really quite a habit of mine, especially since I played basketball for five years back in middle school and high school. So when I it comes to playing beer pong, I apply the same throwing technique. I place my left hand down, across in front of my chest and extend my shooting hand into the direction that want my ball to land. It looks like I am making the letter "L" with both of my arms as I relax my wrist and lob the ball into the nearest cup from where Chloe was standing. I'm good at this. I'm not great. My god-sister Leah always told me that when playing beer pong, "The art is always in the arch." Considering that I was a moderately all right basketball player – when you're five foot three your basketball positions are very limited – I was a moderately okay beer pong player.
The fact that I can shoot a ball into a cup 33 inches away from me is a source of no small amount of pride. Plus, as I scored again and again against Alice, Chloe and then later Mollie, I could tell that they were irked by the fact that their poor beer pong skills was topped by an American girl.
I do have to admit though, when Jon and I played against Rachel, she was a much better player than our flatmates. She actually respected the "art of the arch" and scored several times.
So while we had this glorious beer pong table in our flat it seemed only natural to invite other people to come over to play beer pong as well. If anything it would give Alice, Chloe and Mollie a chance to practice their beer pong throws. Rachel was already way ahead of the curve. I guess they must learn about the "art of the arch" in nursing school. Jon invited his Northwestern buddies over to our flat. Connor, Mel, my friend Amy and a whole handful of people squeezed into our tiny kitchen to spend an evening playing beer pong.
It was Brits vs. Americans.
Brits vs. Brits.
Americans vs. Americans.
It was an international coalition of beer pong players!
And while we hosted beer pong tournaments, pre-games or just flat our drunken soirées in our kitchen to our British flatmates and our acquaintances from the study abroad students from Northwestern University, there was a suddenly change in the atmosphere after the first week of having a beer pong table in our flat.The first and obvious noticeable change was the sight. After getting wasted and staggering back to our rooms, the next morning we would wake up and find the entire kitchen in a disarray. It looked like someone had raided our kitchen, and threw red solo cups everywhere on the ground. Because we would force our kitchen table and our chairs to a corner of the room, there would be this massive ping pong table dominating the kitchen. I would have to climb over it or shove the damn table aside just to get to my cupboard of food and kitchen supplies underneath the sink.
Second was the smell. So much beer would be played every night on the beer pong table that the table itself was always sticky with the yeasty odor of the alcohol. The floor would be covered with it too. Worse, we would always reuse the red solo cups for other beer pong games and sometimes days would go by before we would realize that some of the cups were accumulating mold at the very bottom because no one thought of washing them.
The aftermath of the beer pong extravaganzas got so bad that two weeks went by without anyone cleaning the kitchen and I could start smelling the stench of beer from my door down the hall from the kitchen. And my room was the furthest away from the kitchen!
Interestingly enough, if you give a bunch of native Brits a beer pong table, they'll ask you the rules of the game. And in a matter of weeks, those native Brits will get really good at playing beer pong and practice and practice until they have achieved the "art of the arch." It was as if all of my British flatmates had dismissed their innate British ability of proper etiquette to go full out American wasted.
It's kinda the exact opposite of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.
When Jon and I demanded a rematch between Alice and Chloe three weeks into converting our tiny kitchen into a disgusting pigsty of beer slosh and mold, both girls played a fairly serious beer pong game. One night, we were playing against Mollie and Rachel and Mollie thew her ping pong ball into the Bitch Cup on our side. Jon had to down the entire cup – an unalloyed monster of vodka, rum and tequila.The Brits laughed and laughed, Jon and I were already losing badly.
"Oh, what now you Yanks?" Alice yelled smugly out to Jon and I from across the beer pong table. "We're coming back to re-conoloize you. Yeah, that's right."
I think beer pong is game to encourage people to socialize together. What I like about it is that it's a display of talent. The game isn't whether you clear out all of the cups, it's a race as to whether you're talent as a shooter will last longer than the alcohol that is currently entering your system. It's not like basketball where its a game based solely on socially redeeming values. It's not a game where you exercise and throw a half court shot. Nope. Beer pong takes place under the loud hum of crappy fluorescent light bulbs or darkened basements or dorms at fraternity houses. Plus, you drink beer.
In other words, beer pong is a game that you play in your early to late twenties before you enter the adult world. While Jon and I were college juniors, our British flatmates were going to have three more years of nonstop drinking and partying until the real world would stick its ugly head in the doorway and usher them into figuring out how to adult.
For me, my life will always be full of shots. Not just shots I would have to make into someone's solo cup, but shots I would have to make to get the dream job that I want straight out of college, or the shot I will have to take when I am forced to rewrite a draft to one of my stories.
While my British flatmates felt the need to rush, to practice, to improve their tosses when it came to playing beer pong, I have come to appreciate the ease of beer pong. How light the ball feels in my hand when I throw it into my opponent's cup. How weightless that ball is, but how loud of an impact it makes when it flies perfectly into the cup.
Oh, and in case, anyone was wondering, I did eventually get some bed sheets later on that month on Oxford Street.
