Today, as I was mashing my face between the bars at Buckingham Palace to get a look at a guard (who was doing absolutely nothing of note except wearing a really excellent hat) I realized that after a week here in London, I still feel fresh off the plane--and I'm loving every minute of it. I don't think I've been this clueless, confused and deliriously excited since my fourth birthday at Chuck-e-Cheese.
Living in a foreign country? Just saw the ball bit? Who knows?
Every day is a game-changer regarding how I understand myself. My American accent comes with a lot of baggage, both good and bad. I've never been in a place where just opening my mouth is enough to trigger a whole world of predispositions about me. The very first day I was here, someone stopped me at the airport tube to ask directions, but as soon as they heard me speak, just kept walking. I realized--I have an accent now!
I've been asked if I'm Canadian, I've been asked if I'm a Texan, I've been asked if back in the States I rode a horse and could twirl a lasso. Or maybe it was if I could ride a lasso and twirl a horse. The guy was pretty drunk.
But the weirdest thing of all is not that I feel different, it's that I AM different. All of these phrases apply to me now--
Elaine, the urban intern.
Elaine, the one with the accent.
Elaine, the pub-crawler.
Elaine, the one who can't make correct change.
In the past week I've started my internship--which is renting a room above a men's salon, because I am the fourth employee. I've seen the British Museum, parliament, Big Ben, my first gyro shop, my first pub, navigated my first tube and bus, started cooking again, been inside my first London fashion store, flats, high rises, pharmacies, grocers, walked more than I think I have in the past month combined.
This first week has been full of tiny triumphs and losses. For example, I have not yet gotten lost in the public transit, and my fear of having to stake out a new life lost within the bowels of the London tube system appears to be unfounded. For one thing, it's not as hard as I thought it would be. Everything is color coded. However, if I were to sum up public transit in one sensation, it would be the feeling of being in the way. If you are not moving as fast or as with as much intention as the person behind you, they will push you out of the way. A nine-year-old French girl shoved me out of the train when I wasn't moving fast enough for her.
But maybe I'm painting a bad picture of the tube. It's incredible, and after 11 pm on a weekend, when you'd think would be the shadiest, most uncomfortable time, it's the opposite--everyone is going out to a party and if they're young enough not to be jaded about talking to strangers on the tube, they'll strike up the best conversations.
Met two guys on Saturday that were going to a Fancy Dress party. Not what it sounds like.
In the past week, I've been Elaine the tourist, Elaine the American who is way too excited about riding the tube right now, Elaine the one who still cannot make change even after the third try.
On Friday, someone stopped and asked for directions and I knew what to tell them. On Saturday I led a group of people in my flat to the British Museum. On Sunday, I finally made correct change.
And tonight I feel like Elaine, who is slowly learning how to do this. Maybe I'll even be ready to start work tomorrow.
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