CU Abroad – Kenyon Cory

Today. Approximately 5:15 PM. I wake up from a much-needed nap to the smell of unidentified spices and the sound of boisterous laughter emanating from my kitchen. I am instantly hungry and curious.

With the pretense of getting of glass of water I make my way to the kitchen. The place is a mess. I see a large platter of chicken wings covered in something red, vegetables in random places, vessels and utensils strewn about in various states of use, and my flatmate Sara and two other girls hovering over a pot on the stove. “Smells good in here,” I venture. Sara and the two other turn to look at me standing there awkwardly in my pajama shorts. “I’m learning how to cook Indian!” Sara announces excitedly. She is Nigerian, and heretofore a devotee of hummus and frozen dinners. It is only then I realize that one of the friends is Indian, the one now chopping vegetables at the counter. “Good luck!” I offer as I leave, and marvel at the international feast about to debut. In the pot, butter slowly melts, waiting for the other ingredients to join in.

This mixing of flavors and cultures is certainly not a unique event in my flat. In fact, we are a veritable United Nations of assigned housing partners. In addition to Nigerian Sara and my American self, we have an English guy and two continental European women: one from Germany and one from Italy. Our kitchen is home to both homemade pesto for dinner and canned baked beans for breakfast. At any given time you might hear four different languages in our tiny hallway. We represent such varied backgrounds, all converged on London. So while I haven’t become particularly close to any one of them, I couldn’t have asked for better flatmates for my time here. Together we are almost as diverse as the city itself.

Walking down any street here in London, especially those in the student and tourist-rich area where I live, you will almost certainly see someone dressed in a traditional religious or cultural outfit, hear another speaking a language you can’t immediately identify, and see yet another eating or carrying Indian food. I was once stuck in the tube with a group of French schoolchildren and their English teacher…who was Asian. My own teachers here are from the United States, Argentina, France, and Jordan. Even among the non-student London population over 13% are of South Asian descent, and one survey claims there are more than 300 languages spoken in the city every day. It’s not surprising then that London’s Heathrow Airport has the highest volume of international travelers of any airport in the world. Talk about a melting pot.

In a city as flavorful as London, one is always a student, always learning. It is simply inevitable that you will encounter someone from a country, culture, or religion quite different from your own, thus provoking curiosity, raising questions. Is this not the ideal environment for a “study abroad” experience? To be constantly surrounded by things foreign and stimulating? I hope my American presence can also add to someone else’s experience. Perhaps my role as “taster of first-attempt Indian food” counts…because the butter sauce was delicious and Sara’s friend has promised to send me the recipe.

Reflections on a weekend in Scotland (Edinburgh and the Highlands) from the bus on the way back to London:

Speed down rail lines
Long gone city sounds, crowds
Drown out the heartbeat with sleep
Breathe complete seaside, free

Step out fresh now
New somehow, Old Town
Wander wet streets, winding
Binding past times, night shining

New day hillsides
Through fresh fog trek, connect
Introspect at Loch Ness
Bless’d, clan ghosts protect

We’re detached from time passed
Much to do for few hours, true
Accrue adventures, easy
Leaves me feeling greedy

Even though I went on this trip with friends, I still loved having the actual commute time- time spent on buses, trains, airplanes, whatever- to myself. For me this is the best quiet time, tuning out amidst the harried travelers and rumbling machinery.

This trip was the first time I took advantage of my location and went off on a weekend excursion; I’m sure there will be many more to come. I set off trying to answer some of life’s basic questions, such as “What does one wear under a kilt?” (nothing!) and “Should I order the haggis pastry?” (once is enough). All three wandering/pondering days were wonderful. Some highlights:

• Walking tour of Edinburgh led by a very dirty man with a mullet, brogue, and kilt
• Stumbling upon some quality live music in a small pub in Edinburgh.. And having the singer dedicate a song to my (very embarrassed) friend
• Whiskey fudge
• Making friends with a big hairy “coo” (Scottish for “cow”) named Hamish (photo below)
• Seeing the castle that was used in every scene of “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”
• Cullen Skink- a yummy fish soup
• The beautiful landscape, of course
• Exploring my own Scottish heritage and learning all the Clan history
• Generally meeting and socializing with excellent people- locals, other Americans on the trip, drunk rock guitarists at Hootenanny Pub, Inverness…

Scotland feels so much older and more majestic than anywhere in either the USA or London. It was like stepping into another world. Just walking around or looking out a bus window, I could almost see the men in tartans and furs running down a hillside. It was clear to me why this place was the inspiration for so much great literature (Shakespeare, Robert Louis Stevenson) and a haven for so many influential people.

Let me start by saying that I love Cornell University. The last two years were fantastic, I made heaps of lifelong friends, discovered a love for topics I’d never considered, and never ever ever want to graduate. Blah, blah, blah. I’m sure you know this; it’s the same thing any happy university junior should tell you. I, however, am also a chronic sufferer of School Spirit Deficiency Disorder. I own precisely two Cornell stickers, have been to exactly one football game ever, and am certainly not a namedropper.

“Why is this relevant?” you may ask. Well, here’s the confession: I believe that, over these past two weeks in London, I may have became properly proud of Cornell.

Perhaps it was meeting my flatmate’s Dad on move-in day and his “Wow!” reaction when he found out where I was from. Maybe it was when the head of my department at LSE starting playing the “name game” with me, seeing if we knew any other same professors. Or maybe it happened during the first meeting of a seminar, when we were all asked to introduce ourselves. On my turn the Professor became visibly enthusiastic. “Oh, so you’re the Cornell student! I got an email about you! I did my PhD at Cornell!” (Turns out her PhD is in Industrial and Labor Relations, my major). Whatever the reason, I find myself walking through London bolstered by a confidence in where I’ve come from.

Suddenly everything is a comparison. Told I am not allowed to bring my coffee into the library, I am shocked. Cornell’s libraries (plural!) sell coffee inside! And what do you mean I was assigned to a 9am class every Tuesday? Don’t I get to choose? I know these examples are small and trivial, but they remind me lucky how I am to be here, learning what’s unique about London and the LSE.  It’s not the same as Cornell, and that’s the point.

It’s strange how it always seems to work out this way. There are certainly handfuls of clichés to describe it. A traveler ventures to some distant, romanticized land, and in the course of discovering this new place’s treasures, she realizes how much gold she already owns. Well, the more I discover of London, the more I love it. So I guess I’m filthy rich.

“Mind the gap, please,” a pleasant-sounding woman instructs us from inside the loudspeaker. “Please remember to let others off before entering the train.” She’s just so sweet! Of course I’ll do what she says!

Sitting comfortably in my boldly patterned upholstered chair as we whiz through the series of underground tunnels, I can’t help but be amazed. I’m amazed at a “tube” (i.e. subway) system that is actually clean, bright, and modern. Not only that, but also colorful, spacious, safe, positively lovely. I’m amazed that everyone seems to take this for granted. Why can’t New York have a system more like this one?

Pondering in my amazement, I realize that it’s really not so difficult to make public transportation pleasant. Indeed, Londoners expect it. Granted, I have never had a problem with my hometown system. Bustling crowds, sticky floors, abundant graffiti, even ubiquitous beggars and crazies- I’ve always thought of these as just part of the subway’s charm. But when I mention my subterranean observations to an English friend, he is downright pitying: “Ugh! Your subways smell so bad! And when I was in New York I got on the wrong train and ended up in Harlem.”

He has a point. The London tube is covered in clear signage, with numerous maps showing the web of color-coded lines with fun names like “Jubilee” and “Piccadilly.” Each platform boasts a large-print sign listing the stops that train goes to, in order. This might seem like an obvious feature, but compared to the New York stations- where maps are tiny, infrequent and yellow- it’s positively revolutionary. Features like wide tunnels, safety mirrors at corners, and escalators are all so basic in London, but would each constitute a major improvement in New York. Furthermore, the London lines weave in all directions throughout the city and its surrounding towns, with clear and simple transfer between lines. New York’s subways, on the other hand, run almost exclusively up and down town, making cross-town travel complicated; lines become sparse even before city limits in the Bronx and Brooklyn. All of this despite the fact that London’s underground is actually more than 40 years older than New York’s.

After living in London for a week now, I can say that my experience with the tube mirrors what I’ve found in the city in general. Walking through a South London neighborhood I saw a billboard for CoverGirl cosmetics with a fresh-faced model and the slogan “Easy, Breezy, Beautiful.” I realized that this slogan could just as easily be advertising the city. Contrary to stereotype, it has been sunny and mild every day so far; at the moment a gentle breeze flutters the curtains of my sixth-story window. The buildings are relatively low, allowing sunlight to penetrate to the streets (another welcome change from New York).

More importantly, the people are easy and breezy, too. Maybe it’s their lunchtime pints, but the population is generally friendly, welcoming, helpful and humorous. The London attitude is infused with a dash of whimsy, a perpetual joie de vivre. I think we New Yorkers could learn a thing or two here. We could be more polite, and acknowledge that a bit of fun is important. Perhaps we could start by cleaning our subways.

In the words of Saint Augustine, “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.” As a life-long enthusiast of both travel and reading, I have always had the desire to peruse as many pages as possible. Now I’m just one week away from my perfect opportunity: a year at the London School of Economics & Political Science (LSE). With each passing day I find myself daydreaming more and more- about the people I’ll meet, what my building will look like, and how it will feel that first moment I step out onto the crowded street and think “Wow. I’m finally here.”

I know the imminence of my departure hasn’t hit me yet because, when you get down to the details, I’m still woefully unprepared. Yes, I have a visa. I have housing. And a plane ticket, a suitcase, even courses selected. Yet I have no idea what I’m packing or how I’ll get cell phone service. My current office job keeps me busy during the days, so I’m not experiencing any of the restlessness and boredom I had expected. All of my friends have gone back to school, yet surprisingly I don’t mind that either. Several of them go to school right here in New York, so I’m only a train ride away from a social life. Plus, I’m usually pretty tired after a full day of staring at a computer screen. It makes me feel like an old lady. Most evenings I return home to find dinner waiting on the table, followed by a glass of wine with my parents, possibly a short walk, and CNN for a nightcap. I am so eager for the bustle of London! I’m just afraid that without the ache of idle time here to motivate me, I’ll be left to throw things together at the last minute and arrive in London with clothes that don’t fit and a wireless plan that only works in Sweden.

Or maybe everything will be fine. In fact, maybe everything will be perfectly marvelous. Maybe I should stop fretting and actually make a packing list. I should realize that, though it may sound short, a week constitutes seven full days and my time is not up yet. Maybe I can daydream while I pack (multitasking!) of how different my life will soon be. Every time think about this coming year I get that “Pinch me!” feeling, in awe of my incredible fortune. I am strangely thrilled thinking of even such mundane (and potentially annoying) new-city necessities as learning the tube system and finding a good local grocery store. The mere mention of tea or football sends my mind wandering…

It’s safe to say that London is one page of the book I can’t wait to read.