“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 Per
ry, 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 after
noon 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, a
nd 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
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