If I am pushed I will push back, that is the way I am. I am very British. We don't like to be pushed around. When the chips are down we might have to step into grey areas. (Damon Hill)
Americans glorify the British. Am I right? Hollywood makes them seem mysterious and interesting, almost always intelligent AND sexy. Ninety percent of the time, they are also attractive, because, well, it's the movies, and even if they aren't attractive, we somehow find them attractive because of their accents. Thank goodness, the accent lost its allure years ago, and instead, I was incredibly attracted to the idea of the British school system, and how much more intelligent and engaging they must be in comparison. I had in mind green countrysides, quaint little villages and shops, a homey community, and friendly Brits always willing to have a conversation about something relevant. Most of my favorite authors came from England, and I was determined to meet the next C. S. Lewis.
What I was imagining, however, was an image of the few and far between, and from at least a decade ago. The world I was thrown into was a mess of British youth, who have been pushed by ancient generations to be precisely what I had hoped they would be, and so became precisely the opposite. Thus far nearly every person I have met I met in a bar or a club, and almost all of them were too drunk to remember who I was the next time I saw them. Girls wear tights and short skirts or shorts with tall heels, dye or bleach their hair unnatural shades of red, pink, blue, purple, and blonde, either wear no makeup or so much makeup that they look plastic, and drink until they can't see straight, and guys wear a mishmash of clothing, talk of absolutely nothing relevant, and also drink until they can't see straight. And so, instead of the stimulating conversationalists concerned with thought and meaning I expected, I received four months of "please get me out of here."
That's just the people, though. Thankfully, they're not ALL of England.
The history and quaintness have been maintained, and I love it. Were I confident enough to travel alone (i.e. were it safe enough, and were I not female), I think I would like to simply travel the countryside, sitting and staring at sheep, or walls, or sitting in tea shops contemplating how the wildly different American nation came from this weird little island. I would sit and write in my journal day after day, telling of my exploits and wondering what adventure would come next.
Things have been rough, to say the least. Living here is expensive and lonely, and to be honest, I'm not entirely impressed with it. After almost four weeks (a month, already?), my morale has gone up and down so much that it's getting hard to manage.
Only three more months of this. Then I can come home. 96 more days.
Let the countdown begin.
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