How can you say I go about things the wrong way?
Sunday roast.
Things I learned (learnt) while in London:
People don't really hate Americans. They like to use our accents as a way to initiate conversation and then pick up on us.
It is acceptable to drink at nearly any time of the day or night, and nearly every social activity began and ended with either a drink or me falling on the floor.
When in large groups, Englishmen don't seem to mind be spoken to in gibberish in order to get them to say "wot?" again. Especially when the gibberish was sincere.
Older people in England have automatic frowny-face. When their faces are slack, which is most of the time, they are stuck in sad little comical moues.
In London, handsome men roam the streets like feral dogs. Feral dogs possibly waiting to be domesicated.
Even poor, ostensibly uneducated people, have better vocabularies than my friends who went to Harvard and Yale (and me).
It's freaking cold.
For all the talk I've heard about London being overrun with filth and immigrants, I was flabberghasted by how incredibly clean the city was. Have these people been to New York for fuck's sake? We keep our ankles warm in New York not by wearing stockings, but by letting the rats congregate outside our apartment doors in a giant furry miasma of warmth. And the immigrants? Do they mean the one person of color I saw this entire weekend? Granted, she did roll over my foot with her suitcase but I can't believe that's any reason to tighten the conrols on the EU. If on the off chance they mean the gorgeous Eastern European teenagers working in every bakery and coffee shop, I will personally sponsor a dozen of them to move to the United States. A little delicate bone structure could only do this country some good.
Okay so yeah it's expensive, but it's not as bad as every fat American asshole without a passport would have you believe.
Does this make me look English?
So as you might have guessed, I'm now giving some sort of consideration to moving to London. I haven't even arrived back statesides, and I'm already having complaints registered from all sides. "Why would you want to move?" they whinge, "Everyone there is so unhappy."
I know that this may come as a surprise to my more sporadic readers (i.e. my father), but I am probably one of the most functionally miserable, borderline suicides that manages to roll into a collared shirt and heels and out the door on a daily basis. I can't help but think to be in a place where I would be the "cheerful, bubbly" one couldn't be bad for my psyche. (Yes, these were terms that were used to describe me by a member of management in London.) How can you not love that?
