Feeling Old? Visit the Natural History and Science Museums. Feeling rich? Visit Harrod’s. And feeling homesick? The Hop on Beauchamp.”

“Growing up is never easy. You hold on to things that were. You wonder what’s to come. But that night, I think we knew it was time to let go of what had been, and look ahead to what would be. Other days, new days, days to come. The thing is, we don’t have to hate each other for getting older. We just had to forgive ourselves for growing up” --Kevin Arnold, The Wonder Years.

Feeling small isn’t exactly a feeling I get too often. I’ve been 5’8” since 7th grade, size 10 shoe for just as long, and after eating desserts the size of my head, I feel far from small. But London has it’s ways. Take the museums scattered around the city, for example. Last week, I managed to get into the British Museum for the second time to see the Rossetta Stone, Egyptian mummies, among other things crammed into a fairly large space. But yesterday, getting off the tube at South Kensington and walking up the steps into the rainy weather, it hit me. The Natural History Museum. The place is ginormous. Sorry, British Museum, but where you have a block of stone that features clues into deciphering hieroglyphics, Natural History has dinosaur bones, millions of years old, glaring at you as you make your entrance into the Grand Hall of the Waterhouse building. It has an exact size replica of a blue whale hanging from it’s rafters. There’s the extremely long escalator that takes voyagers from the ground floor to the 4th floor via the center of the earth. And, of course, there’s a recreation of the extinct dodo bird. Just when I was starting to feel old, I read about the creation of the earth, the extinction of dinosaurs, and, well, the dodo bird. Turning 23 is nothing compared to turning 128 million years old. I don’t think the queen has even hit that milestone yet. And then there was the Science Museum. I walked through the evolution of space exploration, starting with the Greek and Romans ideas of the heavens straight to the last NASA mission. I experienced mankind’s ability to go from horse-drawn carriage to an environmentally friendly Japanese “futuristic” car. And then there was the special exhibit featuring a light show and big screen that read real time moments in chat rooms to create a visual art show (“dude, luv the new iphone” was featured multiple times).
The day was filled with feeling small and insignificant and I don‘t mean that in a horrible way. But when you walk around a city with a population 7 times your state, you can imagine how tiny and unimportant you are to a place like London. I can pay most of my thanks for feeling that way to Harrod’s, the world’s largest department store (second is Macy’s in New York). But don’t let “department store” fool you. It’s no JC Penny’s. Avoiding the crowd at the main entrance, I skipped past to one of the smaller side doors. As I walked in, I was overwhelmed with name brands. Not just semi fancy names, but huge names. Chanel, Dior, D&G, Michelle Perry, Armani, Juicy Couture, and basically any other name that is way out of my price range. But there’s a reason why all of those collections are expensive. Some of the purses, shoes, and sunglasses were absolutely amazing. I felt like I had walked into another museum. I definitely didn’t touch anything fearing a “you break it, you buy it“ rule that I had maybe missed seeing. And those are just stores inside the shopping center. Think about what kind of food court this place had. Oyster and Sushi bars, Tapas, Gelato, and, what caught me off guard, a very fancy Krispy Kreme. Yep. I’m still a little confused about that one. So, I quietly walked around Harrod’s in my worn-out tennis shoes and jeans and Old Navy tank with my Hollister hoodie. These brands ate my clothes for breakfast. After all the awe-inspired glances, I finally found my mom a couple birthday presents. While I didn’t break bank, just walking around with a Harrod’s bag made me feel a little bit more classy. And the name “Harrod’s” on the birthday presents (no, I’m not going to say what the presents actually are, sorry mom!) is worth the money. Call it a souvenir, but don’t call it cheap.
Wondering around museums and Harrod’s can sure put a girl in her place. She’s just another 22 year old soul that roams around yet another city that never sleeps (and often never sleeps in the Spring rain!). But during that day of feeling that I would be stuck in limbo for the remainder of my life, with no direction and no clue of what I’d do when I get back to the states, let alone what I’d do on my next day off, I found a place where I could find some peace, and for an afternoon call “home”. Well, it’s actually called “The Hop” and it’s run by Americans that moved overseas years ago. They play 50’s music, the floor is black and white checkered, and they have red-swirling bar stools. It’s no bigger than my room and they usually only have one or two people working. But what they always have for sale for those poor, lonely American students abroad in a new country: packets of Kool-Aid, Applejacks (among other American cereals), Dr. Pepper and Root Beer, Twinkies, Aunt Jemima’s Pancake mix, and, get this: Milk Duds. I can’t tell you how I managed to stumble upon this place. It was a mixture of hunger and tiredness that drove me to take an unadvised right turn off Chelsea high street, away from all the designer shops and expensive cafes. All I wanted was a pizza and a soda, and what I got was my childhood shipped to me via air mail and sold, overpriced at that, in some hole in the wall diner. I can honestly say I’ll be headed back. I actually have to. I put in an order for a box of Count Chocula and Frankenberries.
Just when I thought London was out to confuse me on the underground, or make me look the wrong direction while crossing the street (look right, not left!), and make me feel small compared to the ancient buildings that line Oxford street, London picks me back up and throws me into a spot so familiar it’s like I’ve known it for years. I lift my bowl of Count Chocula to you, London. Cheers, big ears.
Xo’s, jill

"It's how we drink in Belgium. It's called a Belgian Dip." --Dr. Evil from "Austin Powers"

First: I apologize for not blogging as often as I should. To make up for it, this post will be long and boring. Well, hopefully not boring, but long for sure.

Working in a Traditional English Pub in the sticks right outside London, I’ve met many walks of life. There’s the drunkard that, after a few pints of bitter, will begin to tell me my country doesn’t have culture and he’ll presume he knows more about America than I do, regardless of the fact that I grew up smack in the middle of the country (and aced every American History class I’ve ever taken) and he’s never set foot outside of the Queen‘s territory. And then there’s the occasional businessman who sips his Guinness and says, “America?! I love America!” He’ll proceed to talk up the States, even though the only America he’s ever really experienced is a trip to Florida in 1984 (I have a theory that every Brit has a timeshare in Kissimmee) and, of course, the 8 o’clock reruns of “CSI: Miami” on BBC 4. But then, when all hope is lost that I’d ever run into anyone who fully understood the America I know, they walk in. “Two fish and chips take-aways, please, love.” “Absolutely. That’s 16pound 45.” “You sound far from home. America?” “Yes, Kansas.” “Ah, we just missed Kansas on our trip.” I think to myself, “Of course you did, it’s a long way from the Mickey Mouse ears of Disney World. “ He continues, “We took a two-month RV trip across America. Started in California, went through the south, and drove back to L.A. through the northern states.” I’m sure my mouth dropped in astonishment and I know I dropped their take-away order on the floor, but to meet foreigners who a.) know where Kansas even is without calling me “Dorothy” and b.) have seen more of my country than I have is a complete surprise. “Yeah, we spent about a week driving through Texas alone, didn‘t we darling?” “Oh, yes, the catfish in Texas was wonderful!” “Have you ever been to Austin?” I asked, eager to share my fantastic stories of family vacations to the heart of the Lone Star state. “No. We were a little unlucky. They were having some sort of music festival and we wanted to avoid the crowd. We want to go back someday though.” ‘Well, be sure to go to Stubb’s BBQ. It’s the best BBQ I’ve ever had. My parents just sent me a huge bottle of it.” After my shameless promotional plug, they continued to tell of random, small town celebrations they just-so-happened to experience (I believe there was an ice cream festival and Pig’s testical eating contest all in one weekend in Iowa, and, yes, I even talked up hometown Atchison and the Amelia Earhart festival). They told their stories of the southern charm of a barman who took a day off work to show them around Shreveport, Louisiana. They stayed in a tacky motel on Route 66 in Arizona. And they ate, and enjoyed, Chi-town style deep dish pizza. I had finally met two people who had overcome the stereotype of an accent and thoroughly enjoyed a different country and culture. So, here I am with two and a half months left on my visa, just over three months left in Europe, and a story to tell of my attempt at “paying it forward” and ditching the stereotypes.
France: Berets, black and white striped shirts, red scarves around a neck, funny mustaches, and smelly people. Oh, and Belle singing about how “there must be more than this provincial life!” (or was it Amber singing that down the streets of Bruges?). A few weekends ago I took the 9132 Eurostar to Lille, France, home of a long lost cousin, Amber, and her French husband Jeremie, plus her two cats (Nacho and the scared one). I arrived early and sat in the train station for about thirty minutes, holding my bladder after seeing the ,50 euro, smelly loos (yes, I’ve picked up even more Brit terms). It was cold and the hour forty five minute train ride next to an old woman who may have been extremely rude or just confused at our language barrier, had worn me out. She kept getting things out of her bag, getting up to walk around, eating tons of food, and drinking plenty of wine. Finally getting to see Amber and meeting Jeremie that afternoon was fantastic. Not to mention, hearing an American accent and driving on the right-hand side of the road made France very homely. For that evening, my Lille tour guides took me to…A PUB. Yes. Just when I thought I had escaped, we go beer tasting at an Irish pub not too far from where Amber lives. With England vs. Ireland Rugby on the big screen, we three were able to talk nonstop and drink up and it gave Amber a chance to help me dust off my French (“parlez-vous francais? --I don’t“).
Sunday was quite an experience for a girl who grew up in the cornfields. We drove to Bergues, France (a fortified city) and then to Belgium, which, for Amber and Jeremie, is no big deal. But for me, when driving across the border means you’re either in Nebraska or Missouri, ending up in Belgium is a much sweeter deal. And by that I do mean a pun. Bruges is home to lace and chocolate. I’m not sure what the lace part means, but they had chocolate shops about every 4 feet. It’s also a UNESCO World Heritage site. I know I reiterated that about a million times that day, mostly for kicks. But it more than lives up to the honor of being one of the most beautiful cities to visit. All the streets are cobbled and the shops are medieval, selling hand made wooden toys and, well, chocolate and Belgian waffles, of course. And Bruges even satisfied our flashbacks to 6th grade with flying buttresses galore hanging off churches and cathedrals. Go ahead, call someone a “flying buttress”. It’s fun.
After our trip to Bruges and an odd, Sunday afternoon Belgian traffic jam, we headed to Tournai, a French-speaking (not to be confused with Flem, I mean, Flemmish-speaking) part of Belgium. I’m actually very frustrated with Tournai. I was tricked there. I badly wanted to pay for something, because Amber and Jeremie are way too nice and feed me way too much, so I said I’d pay for dinner. We walk into to a restaurant, sit down, order a little bit of a food with a side tray of famous Belgian fries, and the bill, for all three of us, 13euros. Thanks.
My remaining hours in Lille the following Monday was enjoyed at a leisurely walk through the Grand Place (don’t say “Grand Place” but “Gr-ah-nd Pl-ah-s”). Lille, Bruges and a visit with Amber was much needed after three-months of Europe and the only thing to show for it a two-day trip to Spain and touristy bits of London. I got my passport stamped once more, picked up some dirty French words (Thanks Jeremie!) and, more importantly, didn’t see one beret or sniff one smelly person. Of course, my experience of France was mostly Belgium, I’m very glad I didn’t see a Marcel Marceau look-a-like, miming his way all French-like throughout Lille. But what I saw of the French countryside and cities, as I quoted early on in my weekend, “it looks a lot like France.” Saying that out loud, I realized I sounded like an idiot and was later on made fun of (or to the Brits, “getting the mickey taken out of me“) as Amber quoted “Jill, doesn‘t Belgium look a lot like Belgium?”. But when you have fascinations about countries and what they should look like, you hope you’re not disappointed. You don’t want to visit France and think, “god, this looks like England” or end up in Belgium and think, “are we still in France?” While I’m formally against stereotyping after the great conversation I had with the traveling British couple, there are some things you just want to be. You want to see the huge cathedrals in France, you want the best waffles you’ve ever had in Belgium, and you want to drink cheap booze in Bruges. My bottle of Kriek awaits.

xo's, jill