Where were the damn leprechauns?

9/25/09

Because I’m a glutton for punishment (and it was the cheapest time available) we left for our flight to Dublin at four in the morning to go to the bus that would take us to easybus that went to the damn middle of nowhere airport. The Ryanair flight was surprisingly fine, they use the same Boeing jets as most services so I wasn’t terribly concerned. The flight attendants just had tackier outfits than normal, and we had to walk up steps to the plane. Maybe I was just bitter about the four in the morning thing. The flight took around an hour, and when we got off of the plane it was positively freezing with blue skies. Think October-ish weather in Philadelphia. Luckily I was wearing my North Face and not my usual skanky October wear (I live for Halloween) so it wasn’t that bad. A lot of girls on the trip had Irish backgrounds, so they were especially excited for this, and considering I am probably the furthest thing from Irish I was just thrilled to be in Colin Farrels homeland.

Our damn hostel wouldn’t allow us to check in until 2:30 so we paid the damn two euros to store our bags and went to go explore Dublin. I was rather surprised by how generally dirty and old looking it was. We walked down their main street and after the Russian head shop selling “snow” and other fine drugs that I’m sure weren’t laced with anything was a cute little breakfast place filled with cute old and tired Irish men. It may have been authentic, but nothing compares to the smiley face chocolate chip pancakes at Ihop. It looks so fucking happy, it’s almost morbid when you cut into it.

After the not so substantial meal and the Limited Edition European Cadbury’s Caramel Milkshake at McDonalds, we started to look around and in my opinion this was just a really poor version of London. Instead of Primark they had Penny’s, and they had a Marks and Spencers (with clover leaves all over the bag) and I saw girls walking around with Topshop and Zara. These were also the least fashionable people I had seen all summer, and their high end department store had crap clothes in the window with laughable displays. But maybe I’m just being a pretentious bitch, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before. L wanted souvenirs so we stopped in a football store and I for the most obnoxious shop, and they pointed us in the direction of Carrols.
Considering there was a Carrols on every two blocks it wasn’t that hard. It sold a variety of T-shirts and anything associated with sheep, leprechauns, beer, or clover. Just to give you a clue about the atmosphere of the place, they played cheesy Irish music with interruptions every three minutes saying if you spend one hundred euros or more one would get this very CD that was playing, a fifteen euro value, for free. I think I was forced to go into that store on at least three different occasions for at least a half hour at a time so I’m not its biggest fan. We continued to wander and after nearly passing out in a bookstore went back to beg for the room key.

Lauren and I had come a day earlier than everyone else because we are ballers and don’t have class on Fridays, but there were five of us staying in a six person room. After secretly judging the rando filthy European backpackers lounging in the hostel (I’ve given up on the no-judgment rule, I have concluded that I am allowed to judge lack of hygiene) we were a little worried. Luckily it turned out to be an American girl who was our age, and her family friend had bailed and she was stuck in the hostel with the rest of us schmucks. We gratefully passed out for a few hours, grabbed dinner and pre-game materials at Tesco, and checked out the bar area we wanted to hit up that night. Aside from the random pubs, there are a few streets called the Temple Bar area that only consists of bars, restaurants, and drunk munchie food places. Not bad.

Lauren, Molly and I ended up going to three pubs that night and it was the expected Irish pub experience. Most of the pubs were really packed, and they were filled with a middle age crowd. Guinness was the cheapest thing they served, so Guinness was what I got. I have never really minded the taste, considering it has a tinge of coffee flavor and caffeine runs in my veins, but they get so heavy and I’m not a big girl. I just have a big… heart. A lot of the bigger pubs played American music and I felt like some of the Boston bars were more Irish than the ones we chose. Some did have live music in the corner or basement, with random blacked out people doing jigs. We went back to the hostel to greet the rest of the room who had just flown in and called it a night.

The next morning I woke up early as the hostel had promised a free continental breakfast. Normally this is my favorite part of vacation, which is kind of sad but you can’t really change one’s undying love for a breakfast buffet. It’s what dreams are made of, and maybe what Christmas feels like. What I came downstairs to were a couple of loaves of bread, two toasters, and little pats of butter and jam. Thank you Hostel Issacs, thank you. I grabbed some instant coffee (the necessary bane of my existence) and went back upstairs to the rest of Drexel who had just flown in and was sprawled out on the floor. A few hours later we bought tickets to take the tram to the Guinness storehouse, which was unfortunate because it seems no one pays for public transportation in Dublin. Maybe it’s because they spend all their money on beer, which I had just started to realize. I can’t really blame them, the pints aren’t cheap and the lowest of the low (Tesco liquor) was double what I pay in London for half the size. I’m certainly not a scientist, not even a contender, but I believe this all boils down to the laws of supply and demand.

The Guinness factory was pretty damn awesome from a design as well as a historical perspective. It was basically a museum about beer. They take you through the mechanics of making it, from the specific hops and barley, and the use of yeast in the fermentation process. I just thought the waterfall was pretty. There were historical sections about Arthur Guinness and examples of the family’s philanthropy (good peoples) and of course a taste testing section where I definitely didn’t take three or four samples. Continuing upstairs, they had an advertising section which was actually quite witty and had a lot of older examples of the Toucan and “My Goodness My Guinness!” slogans. There was also an instructional booth on how to pour Guinness (For the head to be right you need to wait two minutes for the beer to settle and then cap it off) as well as a bunch of Irish step dancers. At the very top of the storehouse was the Gravity Bar, where you turn in your ticket stub for a pint. It was all glass, and had a 360 degree view of Dublin.

That night we wandered as a group over to Temple Bar area, and everyone split up by accident but thankfully I was with the group that preferred bars over pubs. I can only take enough quaint. Molly bought us all car bombs, which I guess is equivalent to calling something “A Two Towers” in America, but the bartenders put up with it because they get paid thirty euros an hour. However, in another bar, Kelly was told to leave when she asked for one but ending up describing the drink in the next bar and the bartender was the one that called it by its name. Some random soccer hooligans kept buying Molly and I drinks and they explained that most Irish start out in a pub, go to a bar, and then head off to a club. They were also amused by Lee’s outfit, which was a collared shirt underneath a nice sweater. They asked if that was how Americans dressed, and I was proud to stand up for my country and answer with a resounding yes.

Downstairs we met the acquaintance of a diva trannie (Mom, this means transsexual) and she told me I looked Madonna fabulous. We spoke with her for a while and she said people treated her well in Dublin, but she got looks when she went out in London. I believe London is quite accepting, and I think it probably had something to do with her outfit choices. We got back quite late, but I still set my alarm for the damn breakfast.

After breakfast (I was the only one that got up for it) we all left for an all day bus tour of the Wicklow Mountains. It was definitely the highlight of the trip, and well worth the twenty-five Euros. The bus driver was quite witty, and she gave us a lecture on the history of Ireland while she drove us out among the rolling hills and bogs. I don’t think I will ever see something as beautiful as the Irish countryside. Miles upon miles of unending purple heather with green every where else. The weather was also poor, and the sky was gray and overcast with low clouds that just added to the romanticism of the trip. She let us out on a cliff overlooking a lake and one of the Guinness estates. This is where I took the above picture, and the area is indescribable. We broke for lunch and then were let out again in an old cemetery adjacent to a lake. Quite emo if one asks me, but there were some old celtic headstones and crumbling buildings that made for great pictures. We came back after an hour and were given a shot of Jameson upon coming back to the bus, which I promptly gave away. If freshman year taught me anything, it’s that whiskey is Satan’s piss.

After the tour we checked out Trinity College, and Saint Patricks Cathedral and went to fucking Carrols again. The night was quite fun, some previous study abroad students had found the bar where they had filmed the band scenes from PS. I Love You, and most of us had seen (and cried after) that damn movie so we didn’t mind that it was an extra fifteen minutes past Temple Bar. They did have live music, and later in the night played some good American music. It’s always nice to hear MGMT and Kings of Leon when not at Drexel. Unlike London, Dublin's pubs and bars did not play a wide variety of techno music. We got back at 3 and then woke up at 4:45 to catch the bus to the airport where I had my first and hopefully last Burger King breakfast. Luckily the plane landed on time and we arrived for our three hour class. After which we wrote essays for said class. Needless to say I’m a little tired but it was a good weekend.

How quaint.

8/13/09

Today we visited Hampsted to visit the home of the famous modern architect, Goldfinger. Yes, the Goldfinger the James Bond movie was named after. Ian Fleming lived down the street, and named the crazy egotistical character after the architect. Why? Because the real Goldfinger was batshit crazy. Hampsted was adorable, nice little shops and cafes and restaurants with quaint houses and shrubbery. It was a suburban town, and very reminiscent of home, except a cop didn’t tell me to move along when I decided to take a breather.

“I’m going to need you to walk a straight line and count backwards for me.”

“Sir, with all do respect, it’s the middle of the day and we’re having a picnic.”

“ON THE GROUND NOW.”

*Desperately searches for marijuana, and upon finding none decides to hit up the emo kids outside of Starbucks. End scene*

8/17/09

I'm already beginning to become nostalgic and I still have another two weeks left to go. Like for instance, the maids. I'm really going to miss having a maid. From Tuesday to Sunday it looks like a bomb went off in our flat, but on Mondays the entire place is spotless. If only I could bring back one as a souvenir, but I think that would go over my fifty-five pound weight limit. Then again, they are the waif thin, in a Russian Oliver Twist sort of way. I’m officially going to hell.

I'm also really going to miss the area, it's beyond beautiful and I realize I’ve been taking it for granted. As I was lugging my suitcase full of laundry to wash (yes, laundry is two blocks and twelve flights of stairs there and back. Believe me, I’ve counted.) I thought back to when I first got here and was shocked by how low all the buildings were and how sparkling white and clean everything is. Now I get nervous if the window boxes to the town houses aren’t coordinated. Good thing I’m pretty sure my mother turned our entire damn yard into a garden. All I’ll really need is to import some of the locals chugging pounders as they walk home to their flats from work. I don’t think the Leibowitz’s will be up for it.

In other entirely useless news, twas a lovely day. I ended up having lunch in the Whole Foods café which which overlooks most of High Street Kensington. It also allows me to check out the hipsters as they enter Urban Outfitters. I resisted the urge to scream out the window “it’s half price in America, you fools” but I just sat back in peace and ate my potato salad.

I think I hit a new Facebook low.

8/15/09

I just finished season two of the Tudors, and I knew it was coming, but I still cried when they lopped Anne Boleyn’s head off. I felt some affinity with her character, considering we’re both crazy bitches, and I loved her hair accessories. And when it comes down to it, that’s what really matters. Right after the shot of her demise, they showed Henry feasting upon a swan, just reaching right in and grabbing huge chunks while laughing.

A) You’re eating a swan. A lily-white fucking pure swan. Asshole.

B) That definitely goes over your 2000 a day calorie allotment. No wonder you begin to resemble Fat Bastard in a couple of years.

C) Anne is so much hotter than that hussy Jane Seymour. Just because she’s blonde doesn’t mean she’s a good time. It means she has Chlamydia.

If Henry wasn’t played by the beautiful Jonathon Rhys Meyers, who stole my heart in the multi-cultural masterpiece Bend It Like Beckham, I might stop watching the show altogether. Good thing I don’t have any will power to speak of.

Our flat is covered in book shelves, and with the novels and textbooks left over from previous residents. They range from the usual trash-fiction, to the occasional good book, but usually they’re just guides about London and its history. Today while I was perusing the shelves (and curling my hair, I’m not that sophisticated) I came across Merriam Webster’s Vocabulary Builder. What a great way to improve my vocabulary, and sound like even more of a pretentious asshole. Hurray! However, my excitement quickly dropped to more of a “meatloaf in the Hans tonight” level. The words are so basic, even my half-retarded brother or a business student could flip through it without learning a substantial amount. Cosmetic? Conspicuous? Deity? Really people, really? Once again I blame public school.

Last night we went back to Cargo because of free entry Friday, and it was pretty awesome. Granted we had to wait in line for about forty-five minutes because of fire code restrictions but I had my trusty jean jacket to brave the cold. Once again GAP, I am forever indebted to you. Britain has far less fire code restrictions than America, but instead of shoving everyone in and having a million fire exits and/or hoping for the best, they can only have a certain amount of people per fire exit. That means we have to wait for a certain amount of people to leave before we can get in. Once we did get in, there was a huge screen looming over the dance floor that had trippy lights and spirals and colors that complimented the techno quite nicely. They had a live DJ spinning, and it was classic European techno. Basically a room full of people just bouncing around with no rhythm whatsoever. Picture a European frat party with the guys having even less game than normal.

Today we journeyed to the Marylborne and Portobello Road markets, and because I’m a good child I didn’t buy anything. Just a reduced Ploughman’s sandwich at Tesco’s. Shame isn’t in my vocabulary. Marylborne was quite expensive and didn’t have that many stalls, there were a bunch of higher class clothing and accessory designers and an array of good food. Considering Sarah and I are design students, we spent the majority of the time bitching about how we could make the various pins and such for about 80 bucks cheaper. But let’s face it, I don’t have the energy and I ran out of glue for my glue gun after bedazzling my backpack. Just trying to live the dream people.

Portobello Road just had a bunch of the same things we’ve seen in Camden Market and Brick Lane, except it was even more overpriced because it was in Notting Hill. It’s pretty over there, but I like my area better because we have the gardens. I actually hadn’t been back there since Penn left, and it was nice to walk around once more and remember getting lost every damn time I tried to find their house. Which is next door to Stella McCartney’s mansion. Who did our schools sleep with to get these leases?

8/16/09

I am such a baller, I just won a prize pack from Whole Foods Kensington. With it came the strangest mix of excitement and sadness. Excitement because I’m getting an array of their body lotions for free, and sadness because I won by responding quickly enough to a query on facebook. Tomorrow I have to go to their information desk to claim it, thereby admitting I’m facebook friends with a fucking store. It gets worse, I saw their question come up on the newsfeed and I googled the answer instead of actually knowing about the product. I am a failure of a facebook friend, and as a person. However, come to think of it, I should be less embarrassed to be friends with them than some of the Drexel trash I’m forced into acquaintance with. Do us all a favor: go build a fort out of your old Natty Light boxes and stay there.

Last night a club promoter that knows one of the girls on our trip got us into a members only club with no cover. We had to rush and barely made it because the deal was we had to get there before 11:30 or pay the usual twenty pound entrance fee. I forget the name of the club, but it was down a side street in Piccadilly where the higher end clubs were located, and it was next to a club called Beautiful People. Sounds like someone didn’t make it onto the cheerleading team in high school and is desperately trying to make up for it now. Let it go, some things weren’t just meant to be. It was pretty in there, but the drinks were expensive (think 18 or 20 American) so I was glad I had pre-gamed like a damn camel. Unlike Whiskey Mist we knew we were going someplace fancy and had actually dressed for the occasion. It seemed to be a mix of awkward older white men trying to hit on really skinny Indian girls who would only dance with themselves, and the near blacked out white gold-diggers who were amusing the club promoters. It was fun, but everyone was blatantly a good decade or two older than me.

Unfortunately today was my last Sunday in London, as I spend next week in Dublin and the Sunday after that I jet back to the great and beautiful airport they call Newark, New Jersey. And then to Logan airport where I will be greeted by my loving family who will then proceed to give me as much fruit and cookies as they possibly can. Right? Right. I guess I always took fruit for granted, I know it’s expensive but it’s absolutely ridiculous with the exchange rate. The only ones that are moderately priced are green grapes. I hate green grapes. Fucking loathe them. But anyway, today we went back to Brick Lane for the Sunday Up Market, and all of the stalls were different. I went with the intention of buying presents for my family, but considering my mother is a whore I think I’m going to keep my meerkat totebag for myself. That’s what you get for not picking up the phone. The screenprinter I got it from had a lot of great work that made me want to kick myself for not thinking of better designs for screenprinting class. But then again, I’m not the one selling shirts in a stall. Yet. I’m so scared.

When I was taking a breather in one of the stall areas, it finally hit me that this kind of stuff would never happen in America. First of all, everyone was a hipster there. Everyone. Every other person in the market was wearing that white straw hat with the black brim and scene glasses. The atmosphere is also very different, no one really rushes about here sans the business section of London on a weekday. And then rush hour is those same people going to happy hour. I know Europeans live longer than Americans, and I don’t think it’s because f the food or exercise (I have yet to see a gym, but they eat fast food like it’s their job) so I’m thinking it has to do with stress. I would love to know their secret, but I’m just going to throw it out there and say they just don’t give a flying fuck. Minimum wage is around eleven pounds, and with universal healthcare anyone can easily live off of that. I absolutely love it over here, but I don’t think I could ever see myself permanently living here. First off there’s the whole family and friends issue, and second it’s a completely different way of life that I’m not used to. A lot of things are worse in America, but it's still the land of the free and the home of J Crew. Basically, it’s the devil I know and I’m sticking with it.

Mmmm Burberry.

8/11/09

Right now I’m in a bit of a moral dilemma, between a rock and hard, conceited, self-fulfilling place. Yesterday, Sarah and I trekked to the Burberry warehouse (why they would put it in the rough bit of London is beyond me) and it would have been a religious experience had it been dollars, and not pounds. The only real “deal” that wouldn’t leave me eating frozen peas for the rest of junior year were the iconic winter scarves for thirty pounds. They had some nice, plain silk ones for the same price, but I saw myself age another twenty years when I put it on and silently placed it back on the shelf. Basically, I left without the scarf because I felt like everyone has it, and a good 50% of the Drexel trash are walking around with fake ones. I don’t need more reasons for people to judge me. They already have more than enough material to work from. Then I had a sudden, groundbreaking epiphany: I fucking want one. In conclusion, I just realized I have talked about nothing but shopping for the past couple of blogs. What kind of existence is this? A damn fabulous one.

As I was saying before my tangent, they really did put the Burberry warehouse in a 40th street West Philly sort of area. Even though it was broad daylight I felt myself grow quite panicked, and all I could think about was how sad I am if I still can’t handle rough areas. For Christs sake I’ve been living in one for about two years now. Maybe the whole eighteen years in Sharon thing screwed me over, where the most dangerous things one had to worry about were rabid squirrels and alcoholic soccer moms behind the wheels of their SUV. Keep on living the dream and going to Hadassah meetings you classy bitches.

Right now I’m trying to switch off between watching two minutes at a time of the Tudors, and writing this piece of shit. The internet is so patchy here, it’s a miracle if I can watch a youtube video without letting it load for about fifteen minutes first. But how can I go that long without my Kanye? It’s called patience, one of the many virtues I have acquired over here. Yes Mother, I have become a fucking saint. In other news, I can’t stop listening to The Fray cover of Heartless. It sounds odd to hear them use the slang from the original song but they gave it an eerie and haunting quality that I find quite fetching.

Speaking of eerie and for lack of a better tie-in, one of the cooler exhibits I’ve seen is Telling Tales: Fantasy and Fear in Contemporary Design at the Victoria Albert Museum. There were three sections to the exhibit, The Forest Glade, The Enchanted Castle, and Heaven and Hell. You walked along a corridor with a printed black outline of tree branches, and wallpaper motifs. Among the things I recall was a ceramic tree that opened to reveal a wardrobe, a taxidermed fox with gold maggots coming out of it’s ears, and tiny slippers made from moles. Awesome, I know. The coolest room they had was one with creepy, warped, modern furniture mixed with classical furniture from other parts of the museum. My favorite piece was a carved marble chair, and hanging lamp referencing Dante’s Inferno . The chair had images of hell, with the tiny sinners barely reaching into 3D, and the lamp had images of heaven. There was also a rug on the ground called “The Lovers”, and it looked like a huge, shiny pool of blood that supposedly amounts to two people. I would have thought it would have been more, but this is coming from the person who couldn’t even look at her own toe when it got caught underneath the door. Instead I called my mother (back in MA) and texted everyone in the vicinity of crossings to come help me. Then I went to stroll about an hour later and my toe reopened when assholes walked on my foot. The moral of the story is that’s why I couldn’t wear close toed shoes for the second half of spring term. Anywho, this section of the wing was rather dark and had red mood lighting. I tried to look up some of the pieces on the museum’s website, and in the process stumbled upon the Beatrix Potter exhibit. Yo, Benjamin Bunny is totally my shit. All over that when I have a free minute, and don’t feel like I’m melting into this damn couch. The above image is something I made when I was overtired and tried to make stupid shit for my website that’s still in production.

After the Burberry voyage, Sarah and I took a stroll down Covent Gardens, which was just outdoor shopping reminiscent of Fanueil Hall in Boston. Someone told me before I went over here that I wouldn’t have to worry about shopping, because it’s only something one does when they’re bored. Wrong, we kind of do nothing else but sightsee, shop, go out, bitch about the internet, and read crap romance novels in the gardens.

Monday night we went back to the Queen’s Arms for a quick couple of pints after we sent in our papers for the week (yes, that's all of our homework. Feel free to hate me) And Tuesday we went back to Sports Café, where I was told I look like Maya Rudolph from SNL. I honestly think we keep going back there because it's the only bar that will play “I’m on a boat.” Why? Because they know we’re all American. And complete tools.

Abbey Road was...a road.

7/9/09

I feel hurt, nay betrayed. I had mentioned in a previous blog about buying a one of kind dress and scarf, but today I saw them both. In a retail store. In fucking Camden (which I believe should be left for the illicit Middle School punks and the Peter Pans who never grew up out of their Hot Topic oversized black cargo pants) We get it, you’re an individual. (cue world’s smallest brass band) On the bright side, I paid less for them at Brick Lane, but on the other hand I also saw my supposed unique bracelet that I got in a rather nice boutique in Shoreditch, for cheaper at some cart with a super-smiley Japanese woman. At least this gives me more incentive to not buy any more clothes. I’m not helping out their bastard economy any more than I should.

Speaking of economy, these people aren’t acting like we’re in the middle of a recession. On the way back from Camden all I saw were people with Chanel, Gucci, and Burberry bags. Taking public transportation. Needless to say it irked me, not only because I was jealous but because it seems the wealthy are as susceptible to B.O as the rest of us peasants. However, although I have said it time and time again, they really did stick us in the nicer part of town. The family next door to us has a driver, and whenever he’s not chauffeuring them around he’s parked outside our door because none of us have cars. Just inflated American ego’s. He’s an awesome guy, and on more than one occasion has jumped out of the Mercedes to give me a hand with the door when my hands were full of groceries. And by groceries I mean alcohol. He’s also given us huge bags of exotic fruit (mango’s, leechee nuts, clementines, a tropical cornicopia of sorts) because he said he was full and his employers just hand it off to him everyday. And I thought I was cool because I bought a coconut in the almost expired section at Tesco’s. (Three youtube instructional video’s and a windowsill later, it was finally open)

As I was saying before, I went back to Camden today because people wanted to go again and I still hadn’t seen the Lock. Camden was exactly the same, lines and lines of stalls all selling the same band shirts and fake vintage clothing, with tons of stalls of Mexican and Chinese food. I ended up getting a ham and cheese crepe, but needless to say it couldn’t compare to my 4 in the morning crepe in Paris. Le sigh. We ate by the Lock, and it just turned out to be a somewhat dirty stretch of river that they had placed fake motorcycle seating upon for tourists and shoppers. I was rather excited because one of the punks had handed me a flier for a one-night-only metal party, with three floors of the bar all dedicated to different cover bands for a lot of the metal and industrial bands I like, with no cover. Of course it’s the Saturday we’re going to Dublin, but I don’t think I’m allowed to complain….or am I?

Yesterday we went to Abbey Road because it was the fortieth or fiftieth anniversary of something. I don’t know and I don’t really care. All I seem to remember is we spent about two and a half hours taking pictures on that G-d damn crosswalk. Everyone went across it multiple times to try to get perfectly in line and in sync with the album cover, all the while nearly getting hit by cars. Needless to say I gave up after one attempt, not being a huge Beatles fan, and valuing my life over a facebook album. The above picture is me being an ass and hooking on the corner, safely in front of the crosswalk. Not saying I don’t like the Beatles, just admitting I haven’t been exposed to them. We ended up all signing the white gate outside the recording studio (oh, the one that gets repainted quite often?) and were interviewed by some Irish radio guy. When he asked for names most of us, being the self-promoting whores we are, just gave websites. I should hopefully have mine up and running by winter term. Not just a blog or portfolio…an experience.

The night before we had ventured to Fabric, supposedly one of the best clubs in London. The music was positively amazing, they had at least four floors, with reggae and techno and trance and rap. Was it worth the 13 pounds admission? Meh, I’m more of a bar person. Had there been less pushy and smelly people there it would have thoroughly more enjoyable, but it seemed to be a hotspot for Eurotrash and they refused to take our International student ID. (If they don’t believe the lie, what am I left with?) I was in the second group of people to leave and I got home around 5, which is early for that place. Too bad I left all my mind expanding drugs at home. In my second drawer in the nightstand next to my bed. Inside my old rock collection kit. Have fun Mother.

The day before, Lauren and I didn’t have class so we ducked in and out of Primark (aka the fifth circle of hell, bargain shopping for Europeans) to grab tights. We also ended up going into Selfridges which is like a Neiman Marcus times two and a half. Why there are so many more designer things around here is beyond me. Oh wait, they can afford it. Once again the design inside the store was amazing and I am insanely jealous that we don’t have that kind of experience over in the states. Every damn mannequin seemed to be crystallized or painted in another manner, especially in the menswear sections. No wonder they’re all metrosexual. FCUK was a hop a skip and jump away so I made Lauren go in with me so I could fondle the jacket I wanted. She bought a dress, and I was good and just made yet another mental list of “things I’ll buy when I get back because they’re the same thing for half price.” However, when going upon the FCUK website, the US one was rather bare. They had practically nothing that was in the London store. Nothing. Even the web design between the UK and US site is completely different. The UK one is more reminiscent of the Urban website (photo collage wise) and the US just tries to be sleek and sophisticated. Damn those pretentious Americans, damn them.

Will dressing scene give me bad karma?

8/5/09

Well, once again I can’t sleep and I have to go to the insufferable Victoria and Albert Museum bright and early in the morning. Fuck, how cultured can one become? I feel like I need to learn something, anything, after sitting through about a good three quarters of The Ugly Truth. No, I did not walk out of the theatre, that’s far too classy for me. I accidentally clicked out of the website I was watching it on, and didn’t feel it was worth the effort to try and pick up where I left off. Imagine your cliché, attractive successful woman with the crippling social disorder commonly known as “the commanding bitch syndrome.” Granted, she cleans up well and does one of those stupid happy dances whenever something goes her way. Hey, I have one of those. It’s called the robot and apparently Natalie has to physically stop me from doing it in certain social situations. Granted, I’m probably blacked out and stroking my pretend beard when asked a difficult question, so it’s already a lost cause. The only winning feature of the piss-poor written film was Gerard Butler. And that was only because he was in 300. All in all, it was the sort of movie your date would take you to post Olive Garden. After they only allowed you to order the never ending salad and bread sticks meal. A girl can only dream.

Speaking of Natalie, I just booked my Megabus ticket from Boston to Philadelphia, for the grand total of fifteen dollars with a fifty cent booking fee. That equates to about two cheap drinks in London. G-d bless America. Granted, the entire trip is going to take around ten hours, and a good two years off my life. I think I’ve sworn to never take the bus again about six times, but I can allow myself to sacrifice morals when it saves a couple of hundred dollars. Amtrak, do I bleed gold? No, just Tesco instant coffee. I leave for the grand city of Philadelphia on the twelfth of September for her birthday and my junior year, which I’m quite excited for. Seventeen credits and two minimum wage jobs? HELL YEAH.

Today I did my usual class work and lazing about with crappy literature in Kensington Gardens, this time at the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain. I told my roommate I wanted such a monument in my honor, if only to memorialize my impressive and steadfast apathy towards everything.
Yesterday we ventured to the Tate Britain, across the Thames from the Tate Modern. It was rather nice, except for the vast majority of the contemporary exhibit. Don’t get me wrong, I love weird modern art. Sadly, I feel like I "get" most of it, but this was just pure crap. I can’t empathize with sticking a Costco receipt to a wall and getting paid quite a bit for it. It was supposed to indicate the inherent human nature to categorize and list everything. They could of at least made the items inappropriate to make a point, but it was just boring and supercilious. For example, that ample wall space could have been used for portraits of me. The entire exhibit was more or less equally lacking, and it was reminiscent of being too hung over to think of anything intelligent to say, so you grunt and make up some bullshit excuse as to why you had taped two Happy Meal boxes on top of one of another for your 3D final. Because it was delicious.

The only cool room was the very last one, which contained many fake African wooden sculptures, most of which ambiguously depicted McDonalds characters. My personal favorite was the Hamburgler/tribesman nailed to a cross. Unfortunately they had no souvenirs replicas in the gift shop.

Last night we went to Sports Café, and it was bleh, the only thing worth mentioning was most of the TV’s were turned to the fashion channel and the Versace winter line was breathtaking. Not like I would even consider purchasing anything, my Philly bank blocked my card when I ordered something online at Coach to make up for a painful week. They said it was excessive spending, and they held the card because it showed up as an alert. I only spent forty dollars. I had to put my entire life in perspective, and then cleaned popcorn off the floor. Scintillating, I know.

Sunday, Sarah and I ventured to Shoreditch to go the flower market and see the place in daylight. To our delight, the bus stop was right in front of the kebob place we had found when the bus driver didn’t know where he was going and dropped us off at a random station after the techno club. Public Education strikes again.

The entire street was filled with vintage and art and jewelry shops, and reminded me a lot of Newport, RI. The street itself was filled with flowers and it’s vendors, and it was actually quite cheap. If we were staying here longer, I would have loved some shrubbery but at this point and time I would rather eat. The Robert Ryan store was on that street (he’s the artist that uses cut paper to make quaint messages and scenes, Urban Outfitters is quite fond of him and carries his book) and in the vintage store next to it, I ended up purchasing a squirrel poster. To be fair, it was copyrighted in 1818 and I only paid two pounds for it. How many of you can say they own a vintage squirrel?

That night we went to the Ministry of Sound for Sarah’s twenty-first birthday, and I was sadly disappointed. It and Fabric are supposed to be two of the best clubs in London, and this was in the complete hood. I like the music, but not really the crowd and I was already in a bad mood because Keith had to leave that day. (Penn’s program is half the length of ours) The only plus was seeing a bunch of drunk high schoolers bopping about (they can drink at eighteen, so they get good fakes around sixteen) so I was basically in the company of blacked out children younger than my brother. Woohoo. I ended up missing the first wave of people that left, and I didn’t want to wait until 5 in the morning when I had to wake up for class for the others, so I left on my own. In the hood, in a sequined mini dress, with the wrong bus directions, mind you. Luckily, bus drivers love me and I had a great chat with one of them about his son’s goals for University while he instructed me in how exactly to get home, and then drove me to a better stop. On the next bus I had a great time chatting with some belligerent American post-grad students, and I ended up getting home about an hour and a half earlier than the first wave of people because they hadn’t realized the directions were wrong. Burn.

Friday night we went to a hipster party in Shoreditch, and it was incredibly amusing. I miss playing dress up, and it reminded me of a hipster themed party I went to earlier this year. The only difference was these people weren’t intentionally trying to look like assholes, it’s sadly just their way of life. I’m allowed to say such things because I’m sure they point and laugh at me when I’m wearing some pastel monstrosity paired with my Vera Bradley backpack. Get over it, I’m from New England and by default a better person. The featured band was dressed in some sort of Red Riding Hood get up, and they were post-industrial and quite good. Towards the end of the night some skinny British men dressed only in briefs came out on the dance floor wearing Orlando Bloom masks. It was the bastardization of some high school fantasy, but they had accents so I’ll allow myself to forgive them.

For all the shit I talk about the hipster population, they pretty much rule the fashion scene over here, and I hate to admit it’s rather freeing. One can wear whatever they want and no one will bat an eyelash. There was a much older woman wearing a clubbing outfit and wig in Tesco the other day, in broad daylight, and it could have been the Queen for all I know. Picture an entire city dressed like design students. No, it’s not the apocolypse, it’s London.

I am a damn princess.

8/3/09

Growing up, I owned my fair share of Barbies, but those were used for throwing out of trees with makeshift parachutes and other sick and weird forms of six year old destruction. It was my Disney dolls I really took care of and treasured. To this day they are all in near perfect condition, with original outfits and various other accessories and costumes I received for birthday’s, Chanukah’s, and necessary bribes. I don’t think I, nor any other respectable (hah, respectable) girl of my generation, will ever tire of the Disney movie cartoons and it’s not uncommon for a group of my friends to sit around and pre-game to Aladdin, Beauty and they Beast, etc. I don’t think this taints the movies in any way, just makes me appreciate them even more. Surely you can understand my delight when I stumbled upon this artist’s rendition of modern day Disney Princesses, and why the image of Cinderella drinking alone at the bar is now my desktop background. The images are by Dina Goldstein, and more can be found at http://www.jpgmag.com/stories/11918 under the title “Fallen Princesses.”

I thought I’d dust off one of the favorite things I’ve written to date, Diary of An Unknown Disney Princess circa 2007 or 2008 winter of my freshman year. I wrote this in my Comedy and Humor Writing class with Professor Stein. It’s been my favorite class so far at Drexel, and I highly recommend taking it if you have room in your schedule. This is dedicated to the former suite of 1116 Race Street Dorm, minus Tara. You were a bitch.

Diary of an Unknown Disney Princess

By Sarah Solomon

8:00 am- Woke up to the incessant twittering of a bluebird outside my tower. Ordered Pablo to have it shot and nailed to the tree in the castle garden as an example. These birds need to know the consequences of disturbing my beauty sleep.

12:00 am- Sat down for princess lunch, two tablespoons of cottage cheese with a side of longing.

12:15-1:15- Wistfully stared out the window.

1:25- Sent out for royal coach in order to make a visit to Belle. Instructed Pablo to place covers on the seats as it was unusually warm today, and it would be quite unfortunate for the royal ass to get sticky. Pumpkin coaches are so passé, and tofu was in at the time. Somewhat regret the decision, but hindsight is 20/20.

2:00- Arrived at the enchanted palace/rehab center. A talking candlestick took me up to see Belle, all the while jabbering about how she really needed to commit to the “program” and to stop carving her emo poetry into the living furniture. I did not really pay attention, as it was a talking candlestick.

2:10- Finally made it to Belle’s room, stuffed one of the living towels under the door, and broke out the magical collapsible bong. Ended up having a decent conversation with one of the talking paintings, until Belle pointed out that it was the only inanimate piece of decoration in the entire fucking palace.

3:00- Updated Belle on the latest gossip. Sleeping Beauty was still in her
sedative-induced coma and Prince Charming refuses to wake her up. Something about him being Ariel’s baby-daddy and he wants to let “the sleeping bitch lie.” Pretty sure Jasmine has Herpes, but she continues to tell everyone that it’s just a cold sore. Gaston was found guilty of leading a French prostitution ring and has been sentenced to ten years in the Disney vault. Snow White continues to live with seven hairy little men, with one confirmed to be Ron Jeremy. Contrary to popular belief, Snow White is not Snow White due to her fair skin, but because of the pure Columbian blow she sells out of her living room. Dopey handles all of her affairs and has been called the George Jung of Disneyworld. Michael Eisner was last seen on the top of Space Mountain clutching a shotgun and a bottle of Jager.

4:00- Gave Belle a good bye hug, and handed her some Vicodin in a hollowed out book. My Somewhat Evil-Stepmother insists that Belle is in rehab for a reason, and that I should stop encouraging her habits. What she doesn’t know is that I was sitting right next to Belle in that jail cell in Tijuana. I just wasn’t the one stupid enough to get roped into the donkey show.

6:00- Returned to the palace for the nightly binging and purging. Chatted with the royal family for a bit about our day. Father ordered the breaking of a peasant’s legs because he complained about his taxes. Some nonsense about not being able to feed his family. Somewhat-Evil Stepmother finger- painted a landscape of our exquisite city, and little brother convinced the theater department of his school to put on “My Fair Lady.” At this point Father put his head in his hands and mumbled something about leaving his kingdom to a Queen. Little brother did not seem to notice and continued to excitedly tell us how he was put in charge of costume design. Feigned some interest and excused myself to go watch Real World.

10:00- Made myself a nightcap and texted Prince Charming’s cousin whom I met at the bar last weekend, Prince Dashing.
10:05-No Reply.

10:08- Another nightcap.

10:20- Tried asking the magic mirror what to do, and it said I was so fucked. Consoled myself by trying on all my pretty dresses.
10:45- Realized I could not fit into my sweet sixteen gown, and chugged the rest of the brandy. Ended up having a violent argument with the mirror, and petted my kitten until I convinced myself dying fat and alone wouldn’t be that bad.

Noon- Woke up in a pile of dresses, clutching one of my fur mittens, and covered in shattered glass. Quickly called for a maid and resolved to not think of the previous night again.

1:30- Got a phone call from Cinderella, asking what I was wearing to the ball tonight. So busy wallowing in self-pity, it had completely escaped my mind. Replied that I was thinking along the lines of something slutty, but not completely whore-ish. Made bets on how little clothing Jasmine would be wearing, and agreed to pick her up, because she didn’t want to be seen arriving in a frigging pumpkin.

1:31- Began to get ready.

10:15- Done getting ready. Slipped a flask in my purse and booked it to Cinderella’s.

10:45- Did shots in the carriage, and fell when exiting. Cinderella also ate shit, but it was probably because of her glass hooker boots. She tried to explain that they couldn’t be hooker boots for what she paid for them, and I responded in that case she looked like a high-class prostitute. The first thing we saw as we walked into the ball was Jasmine blowing some waiter in the coat room. Typical.

11:00- My inebriated mind could not handle the hall, it was breathtaking. The high ceilings dripped with lit chandeliers, the tables were covered with gold tablecloths that spilled onto the floor, and the air was perfumed with hundreds of bouquets of roses stuffed into vases. I leaned over to stroke an elegant chocolate-brown horsehair recliner, only to realize Pocohantas was slumped across it. Upon further examination I discovered the words “too much fire water” scrawled across her forehead in sharpie. I turned to point this out to Cinderella, but all I saw was her saggy ass staggering to the bar. I whispered a silent prayer to the cryogenically frozen head of Walt Disney that I would get to see her fall again, and tottered off to the bathroom.

11:03- As I walked into the bathroom, I realized all the stalls were locked, and that I had to piss like a race horse. I heard someone yell my name, and looked up to see Mulan standing on one of the toilet seats, exhaling the smoke from her blunt into a vent. I told her I’d gladly take a hit if she would kindly get the fuck out of the stall, when Snow White kicked the door from behind her and said she’d be done in a second, and snorted the rest of her coke off the toilet tank. Placed my hands together in a sign of thank you and had the best piss of my life.

11:04- As I walked out of the stall, a jittery Snow White informed me that Prince Dashing was here, and was looking fine. Doubly glad I just had the best piss of my life. Mulan told me not to be awkward and handed me the blunt. Felt much better.

11:20- After having consumed all of the dinner rolls at my table, and the table next to me, I decided it was time for another drink. I shuffled over to the bar where Cinderella was still perched, slurring to the bartender about how much her life sucks and exactly how she was going to dispose of her godmother to get rid of her curfew. I asked for a red headed slut, and then saw the STD ridden form of Jasmine approach the counter. I told the bartender to change it to a black haired slut, and to make it a double. Herpzilla basically fell onto the bar, with Prince Dashing in her footsteps. I tried to look away but the bastard had already seen me. Forced by social etiquette to emit some sort of greeting, I’m pretty sure I told him I liked his shoes. At this point the Demon Queen of Arabia started to drape herself across his well-groomed shoulders, purring about how good he looked this evening. After detaching himself from her vice-like grip, he asked me if I would care to join him for a smoke.

11:21- It registers that a) he is talking to me, and b) he would like to see me alone.

11:21:30- Nodded.

11:25- Bathed in moonlight, we walked along the cobblestone path and stopped before the dock to admire the ocean. We sat down, and listened to the waves gently lapping onto the shore, and the bitch next to us retching into the water. As he took a long drag of his cigarette and passed it to me, he uttered the very words every princess longs to hear:

“Yo, we should chill more often.”

I breathed a sigh of contentment, and realized that life was not about the carriages, the crown jewels, or even watching the ripped pool boy clean the filters…but the little things.
And in the distance, I watched the sad sad form of Jasmine wobble towards home with none other, than Ron Jeremy.