July 2, 1997
Recovering from a pint of Guinness and two pints of Fosters last night. I tried the eggs this morning at breakfast. Feh.
Decided to stay awake and do something instead of going back to bed as I’d originally planned. Throat was raw, probably from the dry ice at the club and shouting over the music and everyone around me smoking. I could have smoked a whole pack myself second-hand! I was wearing Courtney’s sweater. (I hope it doesn’t smell too bad.)
…
July 1, 1997
First day of class. Met Sarah and Lisa for breakfast, walked to Birkbeck Col. for class. Not a bad first day. I feel confident I can do as well as or better than others in the class. I had written an essay about how my initial ideas of London came almost entirely from films like Mary Poppins. A little trite, but not untrue. And probably not uncommon.
We found out that the prof will pay for us all to see the “Reduced Skspre Co.,” which Lisa, Sarah and I had planned on seeing anyway. Feels good to be saving money already.
After class, Sarah and I tubed to Piccadilly and walked around for about an hour before we met Lisa back at Birkbeck. We flew back because we were already five minutes late — and her class had gotten out 20 minutes early anyway! The three of us bought lunch at Safeway and ate quickly at Lisa’s room. Then we had to run back to Birkbeck because we were late (again!) for the guest speaker, Brian Bates, who talked about Celtic mythology. Made it just on time — whew!
Then prof. Penn took us to some used book stores in the vicinity of the British Museum. Lots of old stuff. Saw a Herb Ritts photo album with quite a few early shots of Madonna. Yum! But S, L, and I got separated from everyone else. We walked around like we knew where the hell we were. Stumbled onto Holborn Station and tubed back to Piccadilly.
I whipped out my map and led the girls to some shops, pubs and cafes Michael wanted me to visit. They were in Soho, somewhere near Old Compton St. and Dean St. Saw a lot of pretentious but hilarious (and intimidating!) gay clothing stores (expensive!), an insanely queer salon called Cut/Uncut, and a few cute pubs and cafes. Got a latte at a little Greek cafe whose name I can’t remember. Wanted to pick up a Pride ’97 t-shirt, but they didn’t have any large size (just S, M, XL), so I’ll wait. Picked up a Gay Times to learn a bit about this weekend’s P97 stuff.
Tubed back home and got dinner. No mistakes this time!
June 30, 1997
Lisa had an episode in the cafeteria this morning. She wanted two apples, but one of the workers said, “No, only one.” It was mildly embarrassing, as any mistake would be. It felt like being scolded, and none of us was prepared for that. Ah, this is Europe — not the land of all you can eat. And apparently not the land of cafeteria workers who don’t give a shit.
After my shower and breakfast, the first order of business was to get a Tube pass for the next six weeks. Unfortunately, we got to Russell Square Station during the rush hour. Sarah still needed a photo, and we waited in line to be told so. So we decided to go get the photo and let the crowds die down a bit.
Continue reading ‘A One-Apple Day: Our Intro to the Tube and Half-Price Tickets’
A journal can be like a tightly bound coil. You start to unwind it, and it springs outward faster and faster until you have a big, jumbled mess. So many memories are compacted into precious few words. Most of the important stuff isn’t in the pages of the journal at all but in the head of the writer.
I’m going to start rewriting some (maybe all) of the journal entries I kept while I was in London on an overseas study program in 1997. I’ve been having trouble finishing any posts recently, so I’m hoping that looking back on something I already wrote might give me more fertile ground.
Recopying an unedited journal is tediously self-indulgent, not to mention unpardonably boring. Who cares about the contents of someone else’s journal, right? My duty now is not to relive my memories from 13 years ago, but to make a story out of them worth reading today. So, some light editing is definitely in order. I can’t resist correcting myself, so it’s actually easier for me this way. Besides, I was 20 at the time, it was a creative writing program, and I was trying very, very hard. There are plenty of youthful linguistic indulgences I can now take the opportunity to stamp out. i’ll let a few of them slip through — for effect. I don’t promise good writing, but I do promise, at the very least, the truth.
Continue reading ‘Arriving in London, 1997, Part 1 of Several’
... but enough about me 