I went to a ceilidh and didn't hurt anyone!

Last night I went to a ceilidh, and it was absolutely amazing. Before now, my previous experiences with dancing (other than freestyling it at my cousin’s wedding) were limited to compulsory square dance week in primary school PE class, and the Movement Styles for Singers class I took my second year at uni to learn useful baroque and renaissance dances for operas. Ergo I was rather nervous, because mostly what I learned from these experiences was that I am a terrible dancer and need things explained to me very slowly a lot of times.

Fortunately, my lovely friend Eleanor is very experienced at ceilidhs, and she nudged me and turned me and pulled me in all the proper directions so that I did not hurt myself or kick someone else in the face.

In case anyone doesn’t know (I didn’t), a ceilidh is a big social dance that is the funnest thing ever. The nearest thing I can approximate it to is square dancing – it’s not the same kind of dancing, but there is a band and someone who calls the dances.

The difference is that ceilidhs are awesome. No offense to hardcore square dancers, but you know how the cool people of America wouldn’t be caught dead at a square dance? Everyone wants to go to a ceilidh. The one we went to last night was sold out, and it was packed. With cool people.

The dancing is I think Scottish country dancing, and it’s simple enough at first when each dance starts but then it gets VERY FAST so I spent a great portion of the night frantically spinning around and jumping up and down and trying not to hurt anyone, whilst also trying to understand instructions shouted out over the band in a serious Scottish accent distorted by a microphone. I was screaming and laughing the whole time though, so I count it as a grand success. I can’t really describe it, so here is a video I swiped from the youtubes. It is not the ceilidh I went to, but it is in the same room, and I’m reasonably certain we did that same dance at some point.

I should also note the after effects of a ceilidh if you are as out of shape as me. I have NEVER done anything so physically demanding in my life. It lasted three hours, and this morning my whole body hurts. Also I have a dehydration headache, because I sweated out most of my body’s water content. *Seasonally appropriate movie reference alert* You know that scene in Hocus Pocus when the witches wind up on stage at the Halloween dance and they put a spell on everyone so they can’t stop dancing and Winifred screams, “Dance! Dance until you die!!!”? That’s kind of what it’s like.

That said, I had such a great time and I’m totally having a ceilidh at my wedding. Wear comfortable shoes. 

I don't do team sports

This afternoon I took myself to the park with a book, because it was nice outside. I didn't stay long, because this is Britain and ten minutes after I got there the sun disappeared and it was 65 degrees, cloudy, and windy. But before I left, I witnessed the fairest, most equitable method of picking teams that I have ever had the privilege to see in the world of kids sports.

As a devout non-athlete, my entire childhood PE class experience was basically one long miserable episode of boredom, exhaustion, and physical inadequacy, punctuated by moments of extreme anxiety that were usually induced by someone hitting a ball in my direction (who do I throw it to??), being forced to attempt to climb the rope in front of the entire class even though we all knew perfectly well that I wouldn't even be able to reach the first knot*, or having the PE teacher line us all up to be picked for teams.

Being picked last for a team is super embarrassing, even if you have absolutely no interest in playing whatever game is about to happen. But these little kids in the park today were on point with their team-picking method. The two captains stood a little ways away out of earshot, and the rest of the kids assigned themselves numbers. Then they lined up in front of the captains, who took turns calling out numbers without knowing to whom they were assigned. THIS WAS THE LEAST STRESSFUL THING I HAVE EVER SEEN and I wanted to stand up from my blanket and give them a round of applause, but then I thought that would be weird, and even at twenty-nine years of age, I feared their judgement. So I pretended to still be reading my book but inside I was thinking, "Well done, grasshoppers. Well done."

*Remember the Presidential Fitness Test, you guys? There's the pull-up challenge, and if you can't do a single pull-up (I couldn't) they had you do this other thing they called the flex arm hang, which means that you stand on a chair in front of the bar, grab the bar so that your hands are up by your shoulders, and then they take the chair away and you see how long you can hold yourself up. Every year I was the only one who had to do the flex arm hang, and every year as soon as they took the chair away I dropped to the ground like a back of rocks. True story. 

Vacation Eating

I don't think my subconscious has figured out that I'm not on vacation here. See, when I'm on vacation (or "holiday", if you will) in a foreign country, two things happen: the first thing that happens is that I don't feel like I'm actually spending any money when I use cash, because foreign currency pretty much just looks like Monopoly money to me. (Spoiler alert: I am terrible at Monopoly.) The other thing that happens is that I revert to Vacation Eating. (Vacation Eating = eating whatever I want whenever I want it, because it's my vacation and I do what I want. Shut up.) 

The thing where the money seems like Monopoly money lasted until the first time I desperately wanted Starbucks, and I realized that the £2 coin I'd been saving because it was shiny and looked cool was actually REAL MONEY and would buy me almost a whole chai latte. However, there is clearly some part of me that still thinks I'm on vacation, because the Vacation Eating is in full swing, and I'm starting to feel like it might be just a bit unhealthy. This is not a vacation! This is real life, and I live here now. So I need to stop eating like an idiot and start eating like a real person, because I am dangerously close to having to buy new jeans. Ain't nobody got time for that. 

I fell on my face helping a tourist

Today, the most coveted of temporary-ex-pat experiences finally happened to me: a pair of tourists asked me for directions, and I knew the answer. And then I fell on my face.

Two old Italian ladies with backpacks and about a thousand different maps approached me at Euston Station wanting to know where they could get the 91 bus to Trafalgar Square. I told them exactly where they could find the nearest stop going in the right direction, and then about ten seconds after they walked away, I briefly thought I'd told them the wrong thing (I hadn't). If they had been obnoxious young people I would have just let them sort themselves out, but as they were nice old ladies, I decided to chase after them and let them know that I'd steered them in the wrong direction (again, I hadn't).

I made it about twenty feet before I tripped over the pavement and bit the dust in a full penguin belly slide, arms out in front like Superman. (It was slick pavement, and I was wearing a slippery coat.) I was completely mortified, but I collected the shattered remains of my dignity, put them in a little bag, and got back up because I am a survivor.

By then the ladies were too far away for me to catch up, so I abandoned the chase. And obviously I wanted everyone to know that falling down at a crowded bus station in such spectacular fashion didn't bother me in the slightest, so I walked confidently back to my bus, head held high, whistling all the way. (Unfortunately, the first song that came to my head was the theme from "Sanford and Sons", but I think I got away with it.)

 It was at that point that I realized I actually had told the ladies the right thing after all, and my concern for my fellow (wo)man had nearly killed me for nothing. I patted myself on the back, climbed onto the bus, claimed my rightful seat at the front of the upper deck, and gave the old ladies a jaunty little salute as I rode past them at their stop. 
Tragic Heroine Risks All for Confused Tourists, Saves Day. 

And now, mostly for the Verus crowd since I haven't updated them in a while, here are some random pics from the last few months. Included is one of the package my mother sent to me for Valentine's day, because everyone at the office should know that she is amazing, and should stop by her desk before the end of the day and tell her so. Congratulations for working with her. 

Deck them halls and all that stuff

ChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmasChristmas.

Just so you know.

So far, this holiday season has been pretty fantastic. The first ever British/American Thanksgiving Feast of Excellence and Majesty and Thankfulness was a success, although there was one minor hiccup when I was asked to recite the story of Thanksgiving. I think I got the general idea across (pilgrims and Squanto and how the Native Americans basically saved our asses), but I may have also mentioned smallpox blankets, which I'm pretty sure was a completely different thing. 

My friend has an awesome kitchen with two ovens, so she hosted and helped me with the preparation. It was definitely the most advanced cooking I've ever done, and I only had to call my mother four times. A personal best.

Since then I have buried my head firmly in the sand with regards to all the work I have to do over the break, and have just been listening to Christmas music non-stop and stuffing my face with mince pies at every opportunity. I've put up Christmas lights in my room, pasted snowflakes to my window, bought a cheesy Christmas jumper, and watched Love Actually twice. Also, German Christmas markets are a thing here, so there is sausage everywhere and I can't stop eating it.

Today I went for a walk with some friends, and we passed my very own Christmassy pub:

That's my name! Well, sort of. We also walked down Regent Street in search of economically-priced cardigans, but struck out. Considering the fact that we passed an Anthropologie, J. Crew, Banana Republic, and what must surely be the Burberry flagship store, we may not have been on the right street for what we wanted. The lights were pretty, though:

And we passed by this intrepid crew, killing it with the Twelve Days of Christmas:

Speaking of which: 

FIIIIIVE GOOOOOOLD RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGS!!!!!!!! No, I'm not a soprano or anything. Why would you ask?  *blows raspberry*

Sooo, that's the story, morning glory. I'm back in the states from the 19th–4th, so it's kind of like I get to have two Christmases. I'll really miss London while I'm gone, but can't wait for the Herald Square Macy's and the big tree at 30 Rock! Roll on next Thursday! 

How much does a letter weigh?

Today I went to the post office to buy some stamps. At home, I'm used to just swinging by the post office and picking up a book of twenty five stamps so that I can have them on hand. I didn't know what to expect here, but I figured it wouldn't be too complicated.

I was not prepared for the third degree from the man behind the counter. His words are in caps because that's what he sounded like. If you don't feel like reading, you can watch this. It's basically the same situation.

Can I buy stamps here? YES YOU CAN BUY STAMPS. IF THERE IS A QUEUE THEN YOU HAVE TO JOIN THE QUEUE BUT THERE IS NO QUEUE RIGHT NOW SO GO AHEAD. Okay... so... I'd like to buy some stamps please.

*At this point he gives me an exasperated look while shrugging his shoulders and holding his hands apart, and I start panicking because I don't know what else he could possibly need to know and I feel like an idiot, so I just kind of stare at him like, "I'm a foreigner. So are you. Can you maybe just tell me what to do?"*

WHAT ARE YOU SENDING? Um, just like a regular letter I guess? Or maybe a postcard or a Christmas card?

HOW MUCH DOES IT WEIGH? (What? How would I know that?) Well it would just be a piece of paper, so... HOW MUCH DOES IT WEIGH! I don't know! It's just a piece of paper! Like a regular letter! HOW MUCH DOES IT WEIGH!! TEN GRAMS? FORTY GRAMS? HOW MUCH?? Ten grams, I guess?

*Let me just pause here to point out that the last time I weighed anything in grams was in Mr. McLaughlin's science class at Reading-Fleming Middle School. That was seventeen years ago. Continue.*

WHERE ARE YOU SENDING? To the US. (That one was a fair question. I should have specified that it was international.) 

HOW MANY? How many? Um, five? (I actually wanted way more than five, but I wasn't prepared to say how many I wanted because I'm used to just buying a pack. I was also getting the vibe that it's not normal to buy a lot of stamps at once here, so I just said five and hoped that I didn't sound stupid.) 

FOUR POUNDS NINETY. For five stamps?? FOUR POUNDS NINETY! Okay.

Good grief.

Reading Week, or: It's not Christmas yet

It's Reading Week! No classes means a chance to catch up on all of the reading we're meant to be doing. For neurotics like me, it's basically a chance to spend a week panicking and feeling like all of my coursework is due RIGHT NOW. Hence this masterpiece of organization:

It's so beautiful. Check boxes. Colored tacks. I can't even. Gah. 

This afternoon I was meant to meet a friend at the British Library so that we could register for passes to use the reading rooms, but she wasn't feeling well and had to cancel. As a Very Responsible Student there were a few things I could have done at that point, as I was already out and had my laptop with me. These things were: 

(1) Continue on to the BL and register myself anyway

(2) Head to school and do some work in the library there

(3) Both 1 and 2. 

Instead, I went to the new Fortnum & Mason at St. Pancras station and played with their musical Christmas biscuit tins. Oh my goodness, y'all. This was the greatest thing that could possibly have happened. First of all, let me just say that I have been doing my best to keep the Christmas at bay until after Thanksgiving, but it is not easy when all the department stores are already decorated and there are puddings and mince pies and musical biscuit tins. 

I wasn't planning on indulging in Christmas today; I just thought I'd go for an innocent walk around St. Pancras station. Maybe pop into Paperchase and get some markers. But then F&M was there with their Christmas goods, and I was weak. I went in. 

There followed a brief moment of confusion when I read this:

Even though my brain knew better, for the flashiest of flashes, I thought, "Are these musical biscuits?" It made me think of one of my favorite scenes from Bedknobs and Broomsticks, when Paul, reading a jar that he found on Ms. Price's shelf, throws out this totally logical puzzler: "'Poisoned Dragon's Liver'... does that mean they poison the dragon, or just the liver?"  

This, however, was not quite as complicated, and it took me all of no seconds to realize that there was no way those biscuits were going to sing to me, and there must be another reason for the tin to read "Musical Christmas Biscuit Selection". I commenced further investigation... 

And lo! The tin itself plays music when you wind it up, and it is magical:

IMG 1664 from Molly Kernan on Vimeo.

If you listen very carefully, it's playing "The First Noel". There were also ones that played "Jingle Bells" and "We Wish You a Merry Christmas". I, of course, wound up each one to hear it play in its entirety, multiple times, to the delight of the man behind the counter. I'll bet he can't wait until I come back. :-)