Days 0 + 1

The flight from DFW to Heathrow was just as boring and miserably close-quartered as I expected, although the televisions mounted in the back headrests of even the coach-class seats were a pleasant surprise. I chose not to watch any of the movies they had on offer (no one can ever force me to watch The Devil Wears Prada) and entertained myself instead in listening to Pink Floyd's The Wall for most of the flight. Dinner consisted of some gelatinous imitation pasta encrusted with red cement, cleverly masquerading as pasta with red sauce and chicken. The lovely meal was garnished by a roll that had been scooped from the wastes of Antarctica, judging by its temperature, a salad, and a brownie. The brownie was the only part that could be considered semi-enjoyable, but I ate the rest of the meal regardless. I drifted in and out of sleep, although my rest was better once I discovered that laying my head on the tray table afforded me the best position. However, this so-called best position was rudely destroyed when the woman seated in front of me decided to experience what seemed like epileptic seizures and crush my head between the tray table and the screen mounted in the headrest. After I woke, we were served breakfast, consisting of a croissant and yogurt. Still, all the annoyance of the flight was made worth it when the plane broke through the cloud cover over the UK. Far beneath, emerging as the sun burned off morning fog, villages with neat row houses and church spires lay surrounded by fields, separated by hedgerows, which had grass so green it seemed almost unreal. And as the 777 banked and began its approach to Heathrow, the Thames unfurled below like a thread of flashing light and snaked off into the towers of London below.

Heathrow was like any other airport, although I took a distinct and childish joy in noticing that Britons spelled 'analyze' with an S and 'color' with a U. Stewardesses in red pencil skirts, blazers, and pillbox hats milled through the airport, as did a few nuns in habits. Another student and I met up in the terminal, went the wrong way trying to find the Tube station, then realized it was inside the terminal and so had to backtrack. We found the Tube station, stood in line to purchase tickets from the machine, found out the machine was broken and wouldn't dispense change in pence, went to change our pounds into smaller denominations, and tried another machine, which was also broken. After that, we gave up, stood in line for fifteen minutes, and bought our tickets from a real live human being, which, if less efficient than a machine, at least dispensed tickets.

The Tube ride to Russell Square Underground Station was long, but at least exposed us to a very important element of British society: rugby hooligans. As we progressed into London, half the car became filled with rugby hooligans dressed in blue and yellow, all shouting back and forth and injecting copious 'yeahs?' into their sentences. Most of them bore twelve-packs of beer. They exited before we got to Russell Square, leaving the car quieter but less festive. At Russell Square Station, I got to experience the helpfulness of British teenagers, as one of them helped me haul my suitcase up the flight of stairs to the lifts. That's a very important difference I've noticed: the British lag far behind Americans when it comes to changing their architecture to accommodate the disabled. I've seen no wheelchair lifts on the buses and no escalators or elevators in the lesser-used stations of the Underground.

Upon emerging into the light of Bloomsbury District, we proceeded in the exact opposite direction from our rented apartments and so wandered for twenty minutes lugging our suitcases, purses, and messenger bags into a peaceful, small square that was the exact opposite of Russell Square, our destination. Finally, we stopped to ask a Briton, who provided us with a well-drawn map to Bedford Place. We passed by an amazing brownstone edifice, crenelated with columns and detailed stone cherubs at every window, which turned out to a hotel, and found ourselves at Bedford Place, a row of flats rented out to visiting college students. Check-in was simple, move-in even more so. I met up with some of the other students in the program, and we all agreed that A), we were starving, and B) this must be rectified via copious application of pub food. We wandered past innumerable small electronics and bric-a-brac shops (as well as one expansive Chinese restaurant) before fetching up at the doors of the creatively-named London Pub. I got fish and chips to go with my glass of water. These were real fish and chips, the kind where the breading on the fish crunched when you bit into it and the dish required no more condiments than a slice of lemon squeezed over the plate. All together, the cost came out to about 6 pounds. After that, I solved the problems I was having with finding a transformer for the outlet near my bed when a helpful man at an electronics shop explained that all the appliances I'd brought with me contained transformers in their AC adapters, rendering a transformer useless. I bought an adapter from him and hooked up everything I needed.

Groceries were the next thing we needed, but acquisition of groceries was not to be, as a group of us wandered around the district and found only Tesco's, which carries the bare basics such as bread, cereal, and milk. I didn't end up buying anything at that point, opting to wait until I received my food stipend from Dr. King. After the meeting at which we discussed our schedules with Dr. King and set up our group excursions (to Bath, Stonehenge, Stratford, and possibly one other place), we went out to find another pub to have dinner in, as part of several group members' (including mine) quest to find the best pub in Bloomsbury, so that we could become regulars at it. We ended up at a pub we'd passed by on a walk, this one called the College Arms. It was a small place with a small menu, but it was cozy and the prices good; I was able to get a game pie (a sort of dumpling filled with game meats placed on top of a bed of mashed potatoes and gravy drizzled over the whole thing) for only eight pounds fifty pence.

This was also where we had our first experience with British pub culture. Four thirty-to-fifty-ish men, drunk to the gills because of the tragic loss of their rugby team, wandered in and proceeded to engage in loud and friendly conversation wherein they tried to get our group to go with them to Convent Gardens. All four of them were from York, and so discoursed at length about how we should only trust Britons from the north, as all southerners were rotten. After we talked with them for an hour or so, they left, but only after shaking everyone's hands. I've decided that I like pub culture.

Pictures of all this to follow.