Today Was A Fairytale

Somehow, this afternoon still doesn’t seem quite real.  Not even a bit.

Every once in a while, there are days that are so perfect, you want to capture the moments—hold them like pearls in the palm of your hand, carry them in your pockets, let them whisper in your ear. 

This was one of those days. Tea parties are a big event for little girls, but don’t let age fool you.  No matter how old a girl gets, there’s something quite special about teatime—especially at the Ladurée patisserie and tearoom.  The French confection shop, world-renown for famous macarons and tea, nestles in the side of the iconic Harrods department store in the heart of London .  On Sunday afternoon, when my mom and I walked by on our way into this fashion mecca, I didn’t even think about stopping. I just stared wistfully at the elegant people lounging in the Ladurée tables, which were covered with silver teapots, delicate china cups, and beautifully designed confections.  A pure blend of tradition, culture, and taste—London and Paris, sweet and savory, all in one place.  Flawless. 

But two hours later . . . .

My mom and I were leaving Harrods when a café caught her eye.  She asked a man nearby about “Café Rouge,” a restaurant across the street.  He shook his head no, quite enthusiastically.  “No, madam, no,” he said with a French lilt. “You go there, across the street, you might get hit by a bus or a cab.”  We grinned. “No. You must go here.”  He gestured to the left.

It’s then that I looked more closely at his distinguished attire: this man was clearly is the manager of Ladurée, the small heaven itself.  My eyes widened with astonishment as he lead us into the elegant tearoom, told the guards that our travel luggage would be placed behind the counter (a rare exception), skipped over the hordes of people waiting, and seated us in the best seat in the house in a matter of seconds. 

Two minutes later, my mother and I were sipping Marie Antoinette tea in this gorgeous tearoom, on a Sunday afternoon in London, at 4 o’clock, in high tourist season. Just like that.

These sorts of things don’t just happen.  You don’t just waltz into an internationally acclaimed patisserie and just get top treatment from the manager and wait staff.        It just doesn’t. But today—today, it did.

I was stunned the entire time, and murmured witty phrases, like Wow. This doesn’t feel real. Amazing.

 That about covers my coherency.  I kept shaking my head in disbelief.  The croissants could not have been lighter, and the macarons? No words.  The shop practically dripped with class, and I could hardly believe I could be a part of it.  So, I raise my teacup, to a magical, perfect, sugar-sprinkled afternoon.

Cheerio. 

Hostel-ities

I guess I just wasn't thinking.
When the morning arrived for me and some of my classmates to leave for a short vacation in London, I still hadn't packed.  Maybe I was hoping that my bag would just pack itself, or Marion, our cleaning lady, would be feeling generous and do it for me. No such luck.
Fifteen minutes before departing, I hastily grabbed odds and ends of (hopefully) clean clothes from my closet, thrust them into my backpack, and hopped on the first train for London.
Only until we arrived at our hostel did I realize my mistake.
Early into our trip, I had purchased one of my best finds yet--fabulous footie pajamas at a local department store, on sale. The kind that little kids wear, with a zipper up the front and airplanes all over the fabric. Oh yes. When you're tall like me, finding gems like these (that fit) are hard to come by.
Why were these pajamas so wonderful, you ask? I have no idea. But I just love em.
The hostel where we're staying is co-ed. Our Scotland hostel had a reservation for our 4 girls, but this time, there were no reservations. No big deal, right?
But when nighttime came, I realized I would be rooming for the first time with several other guys in the room, from different parts of the world. Not that I would be drawing attention, of course.
Not in these spiffy footie pajamas with blue and white designs--no sir.
Most of the people in the hostels are young and very easy-going world travelers, but I was still mortified when I stepped out of the changing room donning my ensemble. This isn't happening. . . 
I sped down the hall, ignoring the grins of onlookers, and quickly let myself into my room.
An Australian looked up from his book, saw my footie pajamas. I felt my face turning several different shades of pink, which only added to my overall swag. All I needed was a blankie and a teddy bear at this point. The Aussie tried to hide his smile.
"It's okay," I said, slowly dying inside. "You can laugh." 
Yeah, I definitely just wasn't thinking. Cambridge is a brilliant school, but not all knowledge is (obviously) taught. . . 
Sweet dreams, and
Cheerio.

On The Rocks

The more I travel around the endless historical sights of England, the more I realize: I know absolutely nothing.

Between all the history, artifacts, languages, religions, traditions, and famous people I've been briefly exposed to over the past few weeks--wow. It's like eating a tablespoon of cinnamon: calming putting a docile spoonful into your mouth before panicking and spitting it back out.  So much history. 

But yesterday, I made my foreign-ish-ignorance crystal clear, as if I don't already scream "AMERICAN" when I stroll down the street in my snazzy Chaco shoes. We were standing at an ancient Anglo-Saxon burial ground near Huntingdon, and learned about the history of these ancient warrior people who gifted us with the English language and the "cheese and bread" combo. 

Our guide had mentioned, in the midst of his long but interesting discourse, something about rock cakes. 

Rock cakes? Without thinking, I raised my hand.

"Excuse me, sir--yes, me, sorry--but what is a 'rock cake'?" 

He looked at me for a moment; the other British people in the tour laughed with astonishment and pity. 

"Would someone like to explain to our American friends what a rock cake is?" He asked, barely concealing his laugh. 

Bottom line: asking British people about rock cakes is like asking a Southerner about a buttermilk biscuit. You can't live without trying one, and if you haven't, you certainly don't expose your ignorance in front of a group of British people. 

Rock on, my American friends, and 

Cheerio. 

So There's That

I'd love to write something insightful, but I'm sitting in the middle of a coffee shop in an indoor mall and there's a pigeon under my chair and it's ruining my focus

Oh, Loving Hate

Four years ago, I developed strong feelings for a certain playwright we were studying in school.  Not the good feelings, like a warm, happy glow. Quite the opposite.
The class was studying Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, but as I soon found out,  I definitely had no love for the impossible Shakespearean verses.  Nothing made sense.
We'd look at the passages, and read different acts aloud in class, as I sat in utter bewilderment. What is a coz? Who cared if you bit your thumb?
I'd foolishly thought the Bard was a literary icon, whose writing would inspire and enlighten a girl like myself.
Nope. Oh no. Somewhere between Romeo's, "Oh, brawling love! Oh loving hate!" and Juliet's "Oh, happy dagger!" I was like, no.
My English teacher would practically gush with excitement over the play, but I just wasn't feeling it.
Two years later, another English teacher informed the class that we'd spend three months studying King Lear, a play by a certain English playwright.
Me: Please-no-I'll-do-anything-I-will-read-thirty-books-or-do-calculus-if-you-don't-make-me-read-this
No luck.
Tonight, though, we are going to see a production of the lovely King Lear at Corpus Christi college, and I've decided to bring my best attitude. Surely, there's something about these plays that has some sort of redeemable qualities.  A Midsummer Night's Dream (which we saw at Shakespeare's Globe two weeks ago) actually made me laugh so hard, I almost cried.
But I never embarrass myself, so . . . .
So we'll see. I'm willing to give Shakespeare another stab (like Juliet, see what I did there?) Couldn't resist.
Cheerio.

My French Bugatti

The Edinburgh night was dark, and slightly hazy, a few hours after we arrived on the train. Sitting stock-still for six hours has a remarkable way of being completely exhausting, so after dinner and relaxing in the pub, I retreated to the hostel room and crawled into bed--which was way more comfortable than I'd expected.

Just as I began to doze, I suddenly realized I had rhythmically begun to wiggle my toes. A nightclub, somewhere down the street, was playing "Mirror" by Justin Timberlake, and I was singing the song inside my head, and moving my feet with the beat. 

Cause I don't want to lose you now

I'm looking right at the other half of me

The vacancy that sat in my heart

Is the space, that now you hold. . .

I was mentally singing along with enthusiasm, and simultaneously annoyed with my sudden energy.

Count sheep. Put your pillow over your head. Stop wiggling your toes, for pete's sake. 

With Jennifer Lopez, and then Beyoncé, and then the Great Gatsby soundtrack, my hope for a good night's rest wasn't looking good. 

So why wasn't this club playing something a little more . . . ethnic? Scottish bagpipes, anyone?

Here's the truth: America totally dominates the international music scene. Not just in England, or other English-speaking places. I'd be walking through Germany, listening to an unintelligible conversations in German, looking at ancient buildings of incredible religious/historical/intellectual significance, and in the same instance, a car would drive by and blare,

Gold all in my chains,

Gold all in my ring,

Gold all in my watch--

don't believe me,

just watch

Oh, man. Gets me every time. Sleepy German villages, playing Trinidad James. The same thing happened in Paris--someone would drive by playing Kanye or Miley. 

It just doesn't seem real, but Europeans get down to Macklemore. Well, I'm proud of us. We have given the world gems like "Bugatti" and J-Beibz's "Boyfriend." 

I guess it's simple, really. Europeans gift us with cultural icons: for example, the French make the new Bugatti. The Americans? 

We wake up in it, and then write a hit song. What. 

Cheerio.

Picking A Fight

Let's just soak this in for a second. Tomorrow, I am going to Scotland, and this is exactly what I expect to see. Okay not really, but I would be lying if I said I'm not incredibly excited, because Scotland is the setting for the best movie of all time--Braveheart. 
I certainly wasn't born loving the movie. My father and brothers had talked about it for a long time, but I refused to watch it; my dad had already told me about how Braveheart died, yelling, "FREEEEEEEDOMMMMM!"  I was like, okay. That's nice. 
But one particularly boring day, I was flipping through channels, and something caught my eye. It was a scene from the beginning of Braveheart, and I quickly changed the channel. And flipped back. And changed. 
And then  back--and by the end of the movie, my pillow was positively soggy with tears (my younger brother was chuckling in the corner at my weepy response, but no matter). 
I was hooked. 
Maybe you've seen it, and maybe you haven't. 
This may sound unbelievably cheesy, but I am incredibly moved, every time, by the fight and courage shown in the film. Many times have I looked at myself, or at a situation in my life, and said, just give up. Nobody cares. It doesn't matter anymore. 
Belief in beauty, hope in life-- it takes courage. It takes strength to hold onto faith, especially when people try to discourage you, and tell you that you're wrong. I believe that cynicism is often the cover for cowardice, and a façade for those who have given up fighting. 
I don't ever want to be like that. 
I don't ever want to give up, lose faith, give in to disappointment and cynicism and anger and broken dreams. I want to fight. Even if it hurts, even if it costs me dearly. And when I'm tempted to give up on the values and truths I hold most dear, I think about the courage shown by those who have come before me, who faced much more difficult situations in life. People who held on, despite all costs, and who triumphed through courage and hope. That's how I want to be. That's how I choose to live.
This is the inspirational moment of the day, live from the Cambridge Cheesiness Corner. 
But I mean every word. 
Alba gu bra (Scotland forever), and 
Cheerio.

When Sally Met Chocolate

Once upon a time, a college freshman named Sue bought a jar of brand-new chocolate icing. She carried it back to her dorm, happy and excited about this delicious treat. Her roommate, Sally, happened to be sitting at her desk when she brought in the icing (studying very hard, not watching Netflix/Facebook stalking or anything like that). Sue walked over to the fridge, and said, "Sally, I have some chocolate icing! I'm putting it in the fridge, if you ever want any, help yourself!"

Sue turned around, and didn't notice that Sally had frozen in place, with her eyes locked on the fridge. Sally licked her lips.
*One day later*
Sue walks over to the fridge, feeling rather hungry for some icing. She opens the door, peeks inside, and. .  . nothing. Nothing is there, except for an empty jar of icing and Sally's massively guilty face. 
Guess who Sally is in this completely false, unreliable, questionably-sourced story?
Oh that's right. Me.
And yes, it's 100% true.
I have a serious guilty pleasure called chocolate, and let me tell ya something about Europe. 
It's full of delicious varieties and flavors of rich, sugary perfection, and I'm just loving it.  Seriously, though--I've had chocolate sprinkled-toast in Amsterdam, Nutella (jakdfjajkdfj love) from Germany, a cacao truffle from Switzerland, chocolate macaroons in Paris, and much more from England. There's a lovely chocolate store called "Chocolat-Chocolat" right across from my college (cruel trick of nature) and I bought some "Noir Lavande" (dark chocolate with lavender) yesterday, and dark chocolate with sea-salt today. There were multiple levels of irresistible deliciousness going on there, let's be honest. It's like the romantic movie "When Harry Met Sally," but for me it's, "When Sally Met Chocolate." That kind of relationship, of tumultuous, drawn-out, irresistible love, between me and chocolate. But like any relationship in life, sometimes moderation is key. So chocolate, I think we need to take a little break, just to clear our heads.
And no, it's not me. Really. It's you. 
Cheerio.

The Rednecks Are Coming

gettin' a formal education. here in cambridge. y'all tell ya what, all this thinkin. wears a body out. so the group, we went to the pub to set and rest a spell, and the bartenders talkin bout the football (soccer, he must git confused) playin and they're carryin on and i says, you aint lived, sir, til you been to big orange country on a football saturday. yessir, bless his soul, he aint really lived til he sees ol' smokey runnin cross that field. caint teach that in a classroom, now cain ya. go vols. 
we played trivia tonight, and i really carried the team. on my shoulders. ya know, out of forty questions, i knows exactly two, so im thinkin im learning alot. carryin the team. i cain tell ya all ya need ta know bout sumo wrestlers eatin stew, and casablanca. real sad, that movie. i got kinda tired, so i put my head down, and then they asked somethin like, "who's the greatest military general who conquered england in such-and-such for such-and-such" and so on. i popped my head right up, and says the answer is clearly General Robert E. Lee, God rest his soul. and they looked at me fer a second, and they says, honey just put yer head back on down. so i said fine and i did that. but aint nobody gotta know bout them royals, kings and queens and what not. carried the team, y'all. so i says im learnin alot, and makin granny proud. and all that. a proper education. yessir.
cheerio, and go vols. 

Paris Probs

I'm officially fluent in one language, and one language only. 'Merican.

But I like to think I'm decent at Spanish, enough to get by, but that pretty much sums up the diversity of my linguistic skill. 

So when my family stopped in Paris during the final leg of our trip, I was absolutely mesmerized by the City of Lights. It's breathtaking. But there was one flaw to my love affair with this cultural haven. 

French. 

I speak NO French. Not even a decent, hello, how are you, good, pardon me, thanks, etc. Nada. This bothered me a lot, because I was dying to chat with Parisians about something--anything. I'm proud to say, though, that by the end of the trip my proficiency was as follows:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NPI3mz2LxjM

I unfortunately attempted, on a stroke of extreme overconfidence, to order a cup of coffee one lovely morning at a cafe. The waiter gave me an empty stare, and I hastily switched to English, my face pink with embarrassment. After he left, my younger brother leaned over and whispered, "Hey, Sarah, please don't try that again." Words to live by, haha. Well, people in England speak English, so for now we're good.

Cheerio. 

the flaming marshmallows

so i have this band. because everyone knows im super hipster, edgy, and like to bend the rules, i have an incredible music taste that mainstream can't touch. so there's this band, called the flaming marshmallows. maybe you've heard of them? probably not, because they're pretty underground, if you know what i mean. before they make it big, you know. so we all know that i liked them before the middle school losers did. anyway.

Psych, my music taste is not even real. I listen to the most random artists, from Maroon 5 to Louis Armstrong, and my musical friends know not even to ask if I've heard a band. Whenever the conversations turn to music--especially independent or hippie bands--I'm like, lolz, I'll pretend I have a vague idea I know who these rando bands are. But yesterday, a momentous occasion occurred on the afternoon train ride into London. Groundbreaking.
Some of my friends began to talk about a band they'd heard somewhere recently, and couldn't quite remember the name. She described their songs, and the lead singer. I had checked out of the conversation ages ago, but suddenly, my head swiveled and I focused in on the conversation. Wait. I. Might. Know. This.
I leaned back, oh-so-casually, and tried to act like I had been listening intently. No one could think of the name.  I gave off my best indie-hispter vibe, flicked my hair, checked my nails.
"It's not The Dirty Guv'nah's, is it?"
I WAS RIGHT.
There's a first time for everything. Like the old song from "The Princess Diaries" goes, "Miracles happen, once in a while. . . " oh yes.
Cheerio.

Time Well Wasted

I like to always be moving. Maybe not in a physical sense, like people with a chronic twitch, but moving forward--making progress--accomplishing something.  Time is a precious commodity which, in my mind, must be carefully maximized to achieve as much as possible. 

This mentality has served me extremely well through school, athletics, commitments, etc. But here in Cambridge, something strange and unknown has suddenly been thrust upon me: 

free time. 

Free time? What is free time? I hardly know quite what to do with it. 

And once again, I continue to be learning something from this incredible adventure. 

What do I do with free time?

I learn to walk down the paddock, smell the breeze from the pond, watch the ducklings waddle by. 

I learn to lay on the grass, and let myself nap in the sun. 

I learn to listen to my friends' laughter, and hear the soul, the beauty, echoing behind their smiles.

I learn to walk down the street near the river, stop in my path, and savor the scenery. 

In short, I'm discovering that time well wasted, is maybe not time wasted after all. 

Living in the moment--between appointments, due dates, margins, meetings--has so much to offer. I'm possibly the worst at doing so, but here, I am forced to stop. Slow down. Take a breath. No time, perhaps, is wasted, unless it's not enjoyed. 

Cheerio.

"Why I Write"

Warm sun, lush grass, gentle breeze, George Orwell.
"(The English) are a nation of flower-lovers, but also a nation of stamp-collectors, pigeon-fanciers, amateur carpenters, coupon-snippers, darts-players, crossword-puzzle fans . . .the pub, the football match, the back garden, the fireside and the 'nice cup of tea'. The liberty of the individual is still believed in, almost as in the nineteenth century."
I'd say he sums up what I've seen perfectly.
Cheerio.

This Girl Wasn't On Fire

One day in Cambridge, and I'm already smarter.
I was early (shockingly) to move into my dorm room, which is in the middle of a small, tight brick building with multiple maze-like halls. Someone showed me to my room, in the midst of a jumble of doors and staircases; I stayed there to unpack for a moment, but after ten minutes, I realized I had a problem.
I had no idea how to get out of there. I paced through the labyrinth of halls; went up and down tiny staircases; peeked through locked doors. The only doors with a view outside were clearly marked with DO NOT OPEN. FIRE ALARM WILL SOUND. Apparently these people are deathly afraid of raging fires at any moment, because every single door has a marking about a fire exit--and there is at least one fire extinguisher per hall.
I was deathly afraid of setting off an alarm that the whole college would hear, but this building was getting warmer and warmer and I began to feel more than a little claustrophobic; I suddenly became very passionate about the cruelty of ant farms, bird cages, and fish bowls.
But, alas, my education was already being put to use. I looked around my dorm room, and realized that the windows were able to be opened, and had just enough room . . .
So there you go. I jumped out of a four hundred year old window to freedom, and saved myself from suffocating. Never mind the distance to the ground. Some students saw as they were passing by, so I gave them my best we-do-this-in-America-all-the-time look. 
Stay in school, kids.
Cheerio.

The Motherland

  

When I say that I'm studying at Cambridge, Hogwarts is what I mean, right? 

I'll be the first to say that most of my ideas about what England will be like are completely based on Hollywood/media portrayals of British peoples and culture. The truth is, based on the American portrayal of England, I half expect for London to be a medieval town with stone churches, knights, people riding on horseback. I'd expect that every British boy is the next boy-band prodigy, like the Beatles or One Direction, and that people I can't trust must be pirates from the Black Pearl. Maybe I'd make friends with Elizabeth Bennett, and maybe banter with Mr. Darcy when he'd slouch out of his manor to go to the countryside. I'd be waiting for my letter from Hogwarts any day now, and know that I'd be sorted into Slytherin (true story). I'd trick Prince Harry into marrying me (also true), and pretend that my fake British accent will make me sound as smooth as the girl from the Orbit commercial. Maybe James Bond will drop out of the sky, or I'll run into Jason Bourne in the middle of the train station. America has given me many expectations for England. So we'll see. 

Cheerio. 

First Morning Thoughts

"When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary;

When troubles come and my heart burdened be;

Then, I am still and wait here in the silence,

Until you come and sit awhile with me.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;

You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas;

I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;

You raise me up... To more than I can be.

There is no life - no life without its hunger;

Each restless heart beats so imperfectly;

But when you come and I am filled with wonder,

Sometimes, I think I glimpse eternity."

I went for a run this morning, my first morning in Cambridge. Cambridge is actually located in a mid-sized city, with lots of hustle and bustle, even in the early hours of the morning. The rest of my American classmates won’t be here until this afternoon, so I had this morning to relax, to slow down a little.  Of course, I am almost pathetically excited to be here; yet, in all honesty, I was feeling a little overwhelmed. So I set out to explore a little trying to pretend that my racing heart had only to do with the fact that I was exercising.  

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the pursuit of knowledge, and the ascent of mankind into the modern age. Oxford and Cambridge are certainly symbols of learning and its pursuit. As I ran, I thought about the celebration of universities and new discoveries; I turned for my final path across a wide lawn, crowded with bikers, stepped over a small obstruction, and . . . face-planted.  Tripped and fell like a baby deer.  Right in the midst of several onlookers.

Mortified. I was mortified. But something clicked inside of my mind right then and there, as I sat on the ground with my hands gripping the dirt, mud streaked up my forearms.

Pursuing truth and knowledge is a beautiful thing, but at the end of the day, we cannot know everything, answer everything, discover everything that there is to know about life.  We certainly try, but despite our best efforts, we reach a dead end. We fall. We fail. Humans can never know everything—-and that is where faith steps in. For me, faith can be extremely difficult, because I want every question about life to have a neat little answer, checked and proven, tested and tried.  But it’s not.  Faith is about trust, and about admitting that the answers are sometimes beyond human reach. 

Shortly after my run, I happened to hear the song “You Raise Me Up,” and it reminded me this morning that nothing—not myself, not my school, not my friends, not my family—can ever answer or be enough for me or my questions about what life is about.  Only God can be enough, and only He can raise me up. 

Ger-manly

My introduction to Germany was as follows:
Bus stops at rest stop. Very clean, bright.  Excellent candy selection. Decide to get a cappuccino. Tinker with self-service machine.  Press buttons, hold cup.  Casual.
A shadow falls. I freeze, eyes darting to the left and right. Two trees have suddenly appeared beside me.  Remove cup slowly, cautiously turn my head, and look up. . . up. . . up.
Not trees.
German men. Enormous,6-foot-a-million, German men. Waiting impatiently to get coffee. Staring down clueless foreigner.
I swallow, murmur something intelligent--"hola-gracias- excuse me--" and scuttle away to safety.
So overall, an excellent stop.

Welkom

Just a quick note: before I get to officially start my term in England, I get to go quick seven-day stint with my dad and young brother through a couple of Europe's cultural highlights, beginning with the quaint, serene city of Amsterdam. If Amsterdam were a person, she'd be an earthy, laid-back hippie who happens to come from a family with money. Here are my first impressions:

• The Dutch eat toast with butter and chocolate sprinkles in the morning. Instant respect. 
• Dutch people eat french fries with mayonnaise (Americans, this makes McDonalds seem suddenly very healthy)
• "Coffee" bars and "Koffee" bars actually mean very different things--a brownie in a coffee bar could give you a lot more than a caffeine buzz
• Bikes. Bikes everywhere. 

Cheerio~