editor meets sunrise.

I woke up in the middle of the night last night in a panic. As the newly appointed editor-in-chief for The Pendulum I have spent the past week making plans for the paper ... developing my vision. I want a better Web site, a more dedicated staff, a better set of reporters, a better sense of ownership among all, to add eight pages to our print product, daily online updates, to start incorporating video and audio elements, to cover more local, state and national news, intramural sports, movie times, editorial cartooning.

Whew!

But for some reason around 5 a.m. last night I stirred in my sleep. What if all my ideas and dreams for what the paper can be don't work out? What if my selected staff members aren't as enthusiastic and dedicated as I am? What if I spend my entire year as editor disappointing myself and others?

I stayed awake, staring at my ceiling until my alarm went off around 7:30.

At that point I gave up entirely on falling back asleep and began my morning routine of e-mail checking and teeth brushing. (In that order usually. I quite obviously put communication before my own hygienic care.) Clicking through my favorite news Web sites gave me an update on all the latest from our gaggle of presidential hopefuls. As I skimmed through Mitt Romney's speech about religion I realized that my situation could always be worse. I could be a newly appointed president.

If I'm stressed about letting people down as a newspaper editor, I can't fathom the weight of the world on our president. Clearly, all these people must be clinically insane.

return call.

Eight months is as long as I'll make it

From the time I left London in May to when I plan to return for my first visit in January. It's amazing to me that eight months has lapsed when I already feel years away from all that I experienced there. I am eager to return and see old aquaintences -- who really, in the context of time, can hardly be called old friends at all. A year ago, I didn't even know them.

Yet somehow I feel like my $500 flight has afforded me a trip into my past. I dream of the familiar smells of the Warwick Avenue tube stop and the hussle bussle of black-clad parliamentarians around Westminster. For the little time I spent there, and for how shortly ago it was, I feel oddly like I'm going back to high school ... a place where I spent years of my life, a long long time ago ... or again, so it seems.

My time in the UK was a whirlwind experience. Removed from my culture and friends I was a different person. Part of me is worried that when I go back, everything will have changed. Part of me is worried that when I go back, everything will still be the same.

I suppose it will just be best to go into my return trip without any expectations. I'll just soak it up as another experience to add to the dusty collection on my internal London shelf. Something to sit among the ticket stubs to Cabaret and stolen Guiness pint glasses from the pub, which I've since lost -- but miss dearly.

article: boys and academia.

Below is a story set to appear in The Pendulum on Dec. 5th. It was a fun piece to write, very interesting. It's more of an example of magazine writing I suppose. Kind of Time-esque. Sorry for the short commentary but it's exam time here at Elon. Expect more posts later this month!

The Male Crisis in Academia

Take a look at any elementary school classroom and you are bound to see numbers.

Not just the numbers that hang on the wall, displaying the nuances of multiplication and long division, but also the invisible numbers that label each child. Standardized test have flooded the education system with data that shadows a student from their entry in kindergarten through their high school graduation.

Mostly, the numbers tell positive stories of achievement and growth. But one pattern is stressing educators at all levels – the boys are falling behind. At nearly every benchmark between elementary and high school, males are losing ground to their female peers.

It starts as early as elementary school, when boys are twice as likely to be diagnosed with a learning disability. End of grade testing also doesn’t bode well for boys – who are nationally more likely to fail a standardized test.

“We have seen boys in particular have a disconnect with school,” said Christopher Poston, assistant principal at Elon Elementary School. “I’d say some is behavioral and some is academic.”

Fifth grade reading test scores from Elon Elementary reveal that one out of ten boys failed to meet reading proficiency. The girls overall faired better, with fewer than one out of twenty falling short in reading.

The math scores, where males have traditionally scored better, also reveal that females are scoring higher, though the difference is much smaller.

Poston joins many educators studying whether biological factors account for the differences between the genders. “Females are more ritualistically compliant to sit down and read. Males don’t have that ritualistic compliant piece,” he said. “They question why they have to read this book. They are pushing against the grain a little bit more.”

Male resistance may be linked to a curriculum built to please feminine tastes. Required reading books like “Where the Red Fern Grows” and “Shiloh” appeal to young girls, but leave the boys less interested.

“Let’s start them reading by getting them to read an NBA magazine,” Poston suggested. “We give them such a narrow playing field [with the required reading books.] We need to make sure we capture their interests.”

The Male-Female Divide in College Admissions
Once boys begin to lag behind in elementary school, the trend continues through high school graduation, and even into college.

Some of the most striking evidence can be found on college campuses everywhere. After a century of male dominated college attendance rates, females have now moved into the majority, making up 56 percent of college attendees. Elon’s 60-40 female-male distribution is an echo of what is facing universities all across America.

“There’s been a lot of talk about this issue through admissions circles,” said Vice President of Admissions Susan Klopman. “But nobody has a very good explanation of why.” Klopman suggested that a shift in how men are portrayed in the media may be part of the reason.

“We’re sending messages that devalue intellectual endeavors,” said Klopman. She cited advertising that features “macho, dumb men” stereotypes and “stupid humor,” as examples.

The entire college application process, it turns out, may be another reason that fewer men are showing up in the classroom. Many colleges will not send admissions information to students unless the student contacts the school first – a move that women might be more comfortable making, Klopman said.

“It takes time, thought and planning to apply to a college,” she said. “When it comes to planning a campus visit or sitting in on a college class, men just don’t have the emotional investment in a college that women do.”

Bringing Males to College Classrooms
There is one place, however, where males have consistently outshined females – on the SAT Reasoning Test. Take for example the CollegeBoard data for the senior class of 2007. The average critical reading score for males was 504, while the average female scored 502. The math scores are further stratified, with men averaging 533 and women 499.

While the men of the class of 2007 outscored the women on the SAT, they recorded a significantly lower grade point average, with women receiving an average of 3.40 over the male 3.24.

With this in mind, Towson University launched a program in 2005 aimed at accepting applicants who had high SAT scores but lower grades. Like Elon, Towson was struggling with a 40 percent male student body, and hoped the new program would bolster the number of males on campus.

They accepted students who had GPAs around 2.8, but who held SAT scores about 100 points higher than the average Towson student.

Initially the program appeared a success; many more male students were enrolling at Towson than before. But before long, problems began to emerge. A large number of students admitted through this program either left the college or dropped out.

“The bottom line is, our retention rate in the program is not as high as our overall freshmen retention rate," Deborah Leather, Towson associate provost, told the Baltimore Sun. “Basically, we are proving what has already been known, which is that grade point average is a better predictor of student success than SAT scores."

Towson scrapped the program in 2007.

Other colleges, including Elon, are using gender-specific marketing to attract more male attendants. For example, instead of the full admissions letter that Klopman might write to a female applicant, she tries to limit her letters to men to 10 short sentences.

Elon has also taken steps to make campus more guy-friendly. The club sport fields were built to encourage a stronger club sports program, something that male applicant’s value. Varsity Grille was given a sports theme for the same reason.

“We’re trying to pay attention to our male students,” said Klopman.

Finding Broader Solutions
Getting males interested in school again may be the first step to fixing the disparity between males and females, but others are calling for more. Michael Thompson, co-author of “Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys” suggested shifting the cultural expectations of how boys should act.

“Girl behavior becomes the gold standard,” Thompson writes. “Boys are being treated like defective girls.”

As schools cut recess time and toughen academic requirements, Thompson worries that boys might be left behind entirely.

“Because of their higher activity level, boys are likely to get into more trouble than girls,” Thompson told PBS. “And they are not given enough opportunities to move around — both in actual physical activity and in how they learn — because they spend too much time sitting and not enough time learning by doing, making and building things.”

Many educators are calling on schools to adopt curriculums that will help boys learn in a way that is more conducive to how they are genetically built. More physical activities, boy-friendly books and a new approach to discipline may be the beginning of the solution.

Klopman, Thompson and Poston all agree that bringing boys to equal footing with girls will need to be a culture-wide shift in expectation. Until then, the numbers might continue to tell the grim tale of how educators are losing the battle with boys.

article: scott nelson

Assistant dean of students resigns
Scott Nelson leaves after allegations of inappropriate conduct

Olivia Hubert-Allen, News Editor

Scott Nelson, assistant dean of students and director of judicial affairs, resigned unexpectedly effective immediately on Oct. 30.

The resignation came two days after Homecoming festivities, when Nelson was accused of engaging in behavior not condoned by the faculty handbook.

Nelson, who has spent seven years supervising punishments given to students for problem behavior, including drinking violations, resigned after drinking with students during the tailgating in the Harper Center Lot.

Though it is typically the university’s policy not to discuss personal matters of its employees, Nelson gave Smith Jackson, vice president of student life, consent to release a statement about the situation.

“Early last week I received several reports concerning Dean Nelson,” Jackson said in a prepared statement. “The reports indicated Dean Nelson had participated with some alumni and students in consuming alcohol in the tailgating area, interacted inappropriately with students, and did not shut down the tailgating area during the football game [which was his responsibility].”

The Elon University Staff Manual states that “being intoxicated or under the influence of controlled substances while at work or on University business” is considered an unacceptable activity.

In a statement made by three female students involved in the incident and evidence gathered by The Pendulum, the inappropriate behavior also included, “unwelcome sexual advances, request for sexual favors and other physically expressive behavior of a sexual nature,” as outlined in the staff manual.

The students’ statement read in part: “Nelson’s behavior was concerning and upsetting. We want students to know what happened so that in the future, others will come forward if a similar situation occurs.”

Nelson admitted to acting unprofessionally during tailgating and takes full responsibility for drinking with students.

“I drank way too much and was way too casual,” says Nelson. “I don’t remember much really.”

He had little recollection of any specific incidents that may have followed.

“I’ve never done anything with students that way,” Nelson said. “Maybe I just came across a little too warm. I never wanted anything from a student in that way.”

He says he resigned because he knows he couldn’t expect students to respect him as a judicial officer if he had violated the regulations his office enforces.

“I apologize to staff, deans and students,” Nelson says. “I hope they learn from my poor example. I tried to be a mentor and was the exact opposite.”

Nelson spent the week in South Carolina with his family.

Whitney Pack has temporarily taken Nelson’s responsibilities, and has become chief justice of judicial affairs. A search will be conducted in the future to find a new director of judicial affairs.

Brittany Smith, Kaitlin Ugolik, Justin Hite and Leigh Ann Vanscoy contributed to this story.

eye of the steam valve.

I'm beginning to reach a breaking point. My inability to say 'no' to commitments has now begun to creep its way into affecting my sleep cycle, eating habits, workout habits and oh yeah... my social existence. I ran into a friend today on my way across campus who I used to spend a lot of time with. "I thought you were still abroad," he said. "You look tired."

No. I'm here. And thanks. I am tired.

I don't know if I am starting to feel the early signs of "slowing down" with age OR if I have just finally bitten off so much, that not only am I unable to chew -- but I'm having trouble breathing too. cough cough.

I know New Years resolutions are miles away from now, but during moments of downtime I fantasize about a reduced workload that a strict resolution might bring. Simple things like being able to cook myself a proper meal, or sneak in an hour with my running shoes and iPod seem like luxuries that I will never be able to afford.

I've convinced myself that if I don't do a million things day that I will not be a successful person in life. Sure, there's some correlation. But if I am starting to wince at my quality of life because of it, maybe success isn't really worth it after all. Can I be happy being average? Part of me hopes so.

I've got two months left until the end of the hardest semester I've experienced to date. To make matters worse, I came into the hardest semester after having basked in the easiest. London was leagues short of academically challenging -- to be honest, academia was more of a nuisance getting in my way of fully capturing the city. Oh to be back again.

But yes. Two months left of sprinting. Then I think I might settle down and jog for a while.

Note to self this January 1st: chill out.

article: statistics matter.

I'm going to start posting some of the articles that I have been busy writing for class/The Pendulum/University Relations. Below is an exercise in writing about statistics.

Elon competes with flagship public colleges

ELON—The number of students from North Carolina who attend Elon University has hovered around 30 percent for the past ten years. Now, higher standards for admission are threatening to reduce the number of students coming from the Tar Heel State.

“North Carolina enrollment is very important to us,” said Greg Zaiser, dean of admissions at Elon. “Students from the state receive the North Carolina Legislative Tuition Grant. That money can be channeled into the financial aid budget, which can then be allocated across the board.”

These financial incentives encourage Elon to admit a high number of in-state students, but Zaiser explains that there is difficulty getting high school students from North Carolina to consider Elon. North Carolina’s well-established public university system boasts such academic heavyweights as North Carolina State University and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

“Coming from high school, Chapel Hill was my top choice,” said Sean Flynn, a junior at Elon from Raleigh, N.C. “Carolina just has a name in this state that Elon hasn’t established yet. I was nervous to tell my friends about attending Elon since they didn’t recognize the name.”

Other North Carolina high school students are turned away from Elon because of tuition disparities that make public schools more attractive. In-state tuition for UNC-Chapel Hill costs $5,300, while Elon’s in-state tuition rate is three and half times more at $20,200.

“It’s usually the North Carolina family who makes the comment about Elon being outrageously expensive because we do have the flagship public school system,” Zaiser said. “At this point we’re really looking at the same student.”

In a survey distributed to students that Elon accepted for admission but did not enroll, one out of 11 respondents indicated enrollment at UNC-Chapel Hill instead, making the school Elon’s top competitor.

In the past, Elon’s student “market” was comprised of students who would not be competitive candidates for admission at UNC-Chapel Hill or NC State. In the past five years the standards for admission to Elon have been rising beyond expectation, placing the university in closer competition with the top public schools.

In the demanding industry of higher education new admissions standards mean a new strategy. Elon’s is simple and direct: money.

Increased presidential and fellows scholarships are aimed to put Elon on equal footing with the less-expensive public schools, said Zaiser. The university is also in the middle of a capital campaign that is focused on raising money for the endowment, which should lessen the school’s dependence on tuition increases in the future.

Money, however, can only do so much. To remain a viable option for North Carolina students, Elon will need to keep standards for admission from competing directly with NC State and UNC-Chapel Hill. Though the admissions office has no plans for intentional degradation of standards, they are monitoring the situation with caution.

“We may reach a point at which we need to stop increasing the admissions standards,” said Zaiser. “We would be foolish to leave the market we’re in. We’re not trying to be a Duke or a Davidson. We know who our students are and which students we want.”

inspired by watergate.

On June 17, 1972 five men broke into the Democratic National Committee Headquarters in Washington, D.C. Two young reporters – Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein – with meager reputations who worked at the city desk of The Washington Post were assigned to the story, which was expected to be nothing more than a blip on the radar.

“I thought to myself … this is where they keep the yard signs! Why would anybody break into a campaign office,” said Bob Schieffer, as he reflected on his first impressions of the story.

Soon, however, opinions changed as the biggest known cover-up in Presidential History was revealed. Woodward and Bernstein were the driving force – able to get to the bottom of the truth by prodding sources for more and more information. As the dust settled, America learned that President Nixon and his staff had taken part in a slew of illegal activity that included campaign fraud, espionage, wire tapping, money laundering and break-ins.

Nixon, sensing his impending doom, resigned.

It’s stories like these that inspire journalists today to push boundaries, ask tough questions and be critical of our administration. While at the SPJ Convention this afternoon we listened in on a panel discussion between journalistic heavyweights Bob Schieffer, Ben Bradlee, Bob Woodward, Carl Bernstein, Daniel Shorr and Alicia Shepard.

The group reflected on their experiences during the Watergate Scandal with humor and nostalgia. They spoke in depth about from the first moments that they heard about the break-in at The Watergate to the making of All The Presidents Men years later. What was most interesting though, was the insight they shared about how the Watergate scandal has changed the face of journalism.

“Watergate taught us that there could be conspiracy in the government,” said Dan Shorr. “We don’t assume that a President, or vice president, or secretary are telling us the truth anymore.”

Though this may seem a sad regression, I think it is probably good that a case like this alerted journalists to the darker side of politics. Think of all that we might have missed if we hadn’t been watching the government closely. I can’t even imagine what they might have gotten away with.

The mood lightened when Woodward reflected on the making of the movie All The Presidents Men. He explained how actor Jason Robards was being considered for Ben Bradlee’s part in the movie. They gave him a script and had him look over it.

He returned the next day saying “I can’t play this part! This guy only says one thing – “Where’s the fucking story!”

“Well,” the movie exec’s replied, “That’s what an executive editor does! We need you to find 15 interesting, creative ways to say ‘Where’s the fucking story?”

Sure enough, Robards played the part and ended up winning and Oscar.

I think I may have found a new catchphrase for myself at The Pendulum.

tax appreciation.

So far this year, I have paid $834 in income taxes. Yes, to many adults this number is probably laughable next to the thousands they pay – but if you put it into perspective for a moment $834 seems no small fare. To a college student, $834 can be three months of food. Two and a half car payments. Enough beer money to last years (perhaps for others only months…). It’s couple month’s rent. A semester worth of books. Two speeding tickets. Or – my favorite – a carefully planned five-day trip to California, London, Southern France or Spain.

However, after two hours in my economics class today, I have begun to think about that $834 a little bit differently. We’ve been discussing personal gain versus social cost. Though I’ve always found myself to be liberal leaning, when it came to taxes I’ve been stumped. It’s hard not to think of all the things I could have if I were allowed to keep the money that Uncle Sam takes from me each month. But after thinking on it for a bit, I’ve found a new way to appreciate taxes. Instead of thinking what I am losing, I am going to now think of what I am gaining…

Roads to carry me all across the country. 13 years of free primary and secondary school. Police officers that keep me safe. Electricity at the DMV, city hall and in the schools. Lawyers to represent the poor in court. The military that continues a disheartening war that is less supported by the hour… My $834 goes towards most of the things that I take for granted.

I’ve wished my cynicism away for the day. For once in a long while, the glass is half full. If having a life of order and society that is – relatively – peaceful costs merely $834. Then I guess I’m getting my money’s worth.

audio pilgrimage.

Squinting my eyes to make out the monochrome shape of the car in front of me is not usually my idea of an ideal way to spend a Thursday afternoon. In fact, spending a half-hour in a torrential downpour on I-95 (oh it gets worse…) through Northern Virginia sounds like an episode worthy of an anxiety attack. And in most cases it probably would have been but yesterday was clearly an oddity. Somehow I found a sense of peace among the large drops of water that pelted my car, breaking their round form on my windshield with a loud “snap.”

The thunderstorm was vibrant, providing spectacular bolts of lighting that would work their way through the sky like delicate winding capillaries. Every bright flash warned me for the deafening cracking sound which was always soon to follow.

I was driving home from visiting my family in Bethlehem, Penn., a conflicted city that is trying to find community among rich college students, underpaid Puerto Ricans and unemployed steel workers. To be honest, it's a lot like Burlington, only with Hispanics and mill workers respectively. The trip was short, but since it marked my first long-distance solo road trip, it was one to remember.

One thing that I reconnected with during my trip was my music collection. To be honest, I am often times ashamed out out of touch I am with music. I never devote time to finding new artists or even given my good ole stand-bys a listen. I mostly tune into NPR in hopes they will make sense of the chaotic news cycle. But on this trip I was armed with something that I have never had before -- proper car speakers.

In my last car, affectionately know as Miss Noxzema (or Noxie for short), had blown speakers that would buzz if a single decimal of bass was in the audio. It isn't until you lose the ability to have bass that you realize how much all music depends on it. :/ So my options were always NPR or James Taylor. Now I love James, don't get me wrong, but hours and hours and hours of James just gets old (As do the repeating news segments on NPR.) BUT on this trip, in my new car, I was free to explore the more soulful parts of my music collection -- Bob Dylan, Etta James, Miles Davis, Just Jack, Justice... mmm ... really anything that skewed from beach music was a relief.

I think that 7 hours of music was enough to pull me out of my dry spell. As soon as I got home I began searching for something new ... something jazzy ... something with some bass! I'm already excited about the musical experience during my next road trip.

internal nesting.

I start this new chapter of my life just like I started my last one -- moving boxes. As I sift through old letters, forgotten books and tattered clothing I am constantly reminded of the life I left behind to cross the Atlantic just six months ago. It's odd how easily things can be forgotten when you don't see them on a daily basis.

My summer has been consumed with finding places for things. Moving into a new house has given me the ongoing challenge at interior decoratioin -- where does this lamp belong? Does the bookshelf look better next to the bed or the closet? However, I have also been busy finding places in my life for things that I've let myself exclude. Familiar friends, spirituality, family and work were all things that I snuck onto the back burner while in London. As I come back to my life here, I admit that I am struggle to make these things a part of my daily routine again.

What is most interesting, is that part of me doesn't want to bring these things into the forefront of my life once again. Being in London gave me an opportunity to reinvent myself, or rather discover who I really might be. Instead of keeping up appearences and meeting expectations I had the freedom to be entirely who I wanted to be from moment to moment.

That is a freedom that will be hard to give up.

But then again, maybe I don't have to...

that bitter burning feeling.

The eight hour flight back from London cannot be described with any other word than buzzing. I was determined not to be sad and spend my flight fueling my breaking heart with thoughts or sad music. Somehow I knew if I stopped for too long I would drain myself emotionally, mentally and physically, and I just wasn't ready for that. Instead I gorged myself on mindless movies, celebrity gossip and cheery music (things I normally loathe, do mind.) When I found myself watching a Will Farrell movie, I knew I had truly hit a low point in my desperation to avoid facing the truth. I was going home.

As I made my way toward U.S. Customs I broke. Feeling the early signs of a cry coming on, I headed for the handicapped bathroom where I sat on the floor of the stall and tried to collect myself.

Everything will be okay. This has been a wonderful experience. There is so much for you here in America. You are glad to be back.

It didn't really matter what I told myself, or even what I may have felt because the bitter reality that my journey is over cannot be changed. The first feeling that comes to me -- sadly -- is regret. Leaving a place and a life that I loved, yet will never be able to recapture has me feeling a tremendous sense of loss. Having felt so vibrant in London, I fear what awaits me in my little life in North Carolina. Good friends and family, is for certain, but beyond that I am not coming home to very much.

So here is where the challenge begins. I must turn myself around, grow myself more opportunities, and face new challenges. Life is not about where you are, but what you create around you.

Happiness is not an island in the rain. (Though wouldn't it be nice if it was that simple.)

t-shirts and memories.

I remember sitting on the floor not too long ago, resting my chin on my hands as I stared at the most enormous collection of matter known to man. A massive collage of clothing, shoes, toiletries and computer parts that I deemed necessary for survival were lumped into a pile that would make Olympic hurdlers quiver. How would I ever cram all of these things into my megar duffel bag and get it a quarter of a way around the globe? People suggested rolling my t-shirts and sweaters, vacume sealing everything in space-age looking bags and (my favorite) "just cramming things in carelessly." I eventually conceeded, packing a quarter of the things in my pile and sending the rest off to live in a stuffy storage unit in East Burlington.

My bags were tight, zipper-bulging nuggets of packing perfection. Socks were stuffed into shoes. Computer wires were wound tight. Textbooks nessled in the core of the bag to ensure a zen-like sense of balance. In short, my bag was sheer parcel bliss.

This morning, I began my journey home by packing all of my bags. With every item placed into my bag, I felt a bit of closure with leaving.

Somewhere along the way, I realized that making my return trip to the United States, I was packing a lot more--and I'm not just talking about the excess amounts of Swiss Chocolate and shoes from Chockers that I will probably fail to mention to U.S. Customs. With every item I tucked deep into my red suitcase went a memory from my time in London.

My black dress pants reminded me of my first day at my internship with the Liberal Democrats, nervous yet eager to get acclimated quickly. A battered pair of running shoes were my afternoon runs through Regents Park which often degenerated into sitting under a willow tree watching the ducks race the paddle boats. A festive tank top took me to evenings at the pub, enjoying glasses of red wine over conversations with the locals.

The list goes on and on, with practically everything I own having a story attached. Though it was sad to be packing these things, it was refreshing to realize how many experiences I will be taking back with me. I go home a different person than I was when I came. I go home having lived a different life, if only for a few months. I go home with thousands of stories, thousands of lessons learned. I go home with the weight of a thousand memories.

Now, I am glad to have gained all this, but I do have one concern. However will I fit it all into my checked luggage?

Perhaps rolling ... or vacume sealing.

my dozen bed circus.

As you may have noticed, I have been feeling a bit down about my pending departure from the United Kingdom. Sometime between chocolate rum milkshakes, walks along the south bank, late night crepe making and political press releases I've started feeling at home in London. A city that once left me awe-struck and overwhelmed is now a source of comfort and familiarity.

On my recent trip to Dublin, I started to think about what makes a home. The obvious answer would be something along the lines of: several hundred nails, 400 feet of lumber, 15 packs of insulation, 50,000 bricks and a dozen sheets of drywall. Or, if you are a nomad like myself it gets quite simple: a bed. My recent sense of home, however (hold on for a bit of something sappy), is shaped by something a little more emotional.

The old saying, "Home is where the heart is," seemed to stick pervasively with me during much of my trip to Dublin. Though I've always found this saying to be true, I struggle with some of the logistical ramifications.

At the moment, I feel my heart is a bit all over the place. A touch is still shovelling snow in New York, while some is playing with the puppy in Pennsylvania. Some is being studious in an Elon editing lab, while other bits are baking cookie's at the Padgett's. My heart in is grilling out at Sam's and taking evening strolls across the Millennium Bridge. And a new addition, at 29 Clifton Gardens, has my heart sitting at night on the cold balcony looking out into the darkened garden, wide-eyed as I try to make out the shapes of the flowers next door.

The more I thought about where my homes were, the more I ceased to think about actual locations, but rather the people who I associate with being there. Indeed, I soon realized that I don't actually have any physical homes, but rather a collection of friends and family who make me feel the comfort and familiarity of a home.

Dublin was a chance to spend time with two of my favourite people in the world. The trip helped me to see that when I leave London next month I am not leaving a new home, but rather leaving the people who make me feel at home here. When I arrive in New York on May 18th I shouldn't feel a sense of loss, but rather one of gain. The stinging disappointment in leaving London only shows how many have had an impact on me while I've been here.

With all these new homes I am a little overwhelmed. It is so wonderful to love so many people but however can I afford the rent?

*Photograph taken in the park in Dublin. From left, Bethany, Myself and Ryan. I love our faces as we struggle to look up towards the bright sky.

blairry vision.

I threw a pebble into the ocean and it created waves.

Yesterday, a dossier which I helped the Liberal Democrats research and put together was released to the press. It contained examples of unofficial briefings from Whitehall and Westminster related to anti-terror cases which were premature or inaccurate and potentially compromised investigations. (okay, so I may have copied that line from the press release) When we released it, we weren’t really sure how much attention it would get. Luckily … it caught.

Sky News showed one of their broadcast journalists waving around my dossier in front of Parliament. A while later, Ming Campbell, the LibDem party leader called upon the Government to conduct a formal investigation into the matter. Tony Blair, of course, had to respond – saying no, naturally. Oh well. But all because of my little dossier!

It is really easy to become jaded in a field like political journalism. It is a field awash with sceptics who have been in the business for far too long. They will break your heart by telling you that nothing you write will ever mean anything—either the government is too corrupt, or the public too disinterested. I may be too optimistic—or just too naïveté—but I have faith that neither is the case.

Though I can’t claim to have made a surmountable impact yet, causing a blip in the news cycle somehow gives me hope. With some polishing, a few years experience, a smarter wardrobe and sharper mind … maybe then I could really cause a ruckus.

One can only dream. But until then, I'll gladly take what I can get.

*Photograph taken in Brighton, England. Spying on children isn't creepy - it's fun!

envying elephants.

It is a sad day when you realize that the end of something is in sight. When I arrived here in late January it felt like I would have a lifetime in London before I would need to pack up my belongings and make my way back to America. But now, as I book a flight home, I can't help but feel as though I have been cheated out of time here. Why is it that time moves too quickly when you want it to slow down, yet when you're desperate for it to pass, it inches along? If every moment is the same length, then how do some feel so long, while others are too short to even be noticed?

My moments here are often worth twice as much as they are at home. Every passing second holds something new, a great potential. However, instead of cherishing the moments for what they are, I find myself desperately trying to slow each moment down. "Remember that landscape. Remember this smell. Remember that smile," I think to myself. I gorge myself on the details, like somehow if I commit every moment to memory, it will be everlasting. Maybe I will be able to relive every moment a million times in my memory. Perhaps then I will slow time down.

But even I know that the best of memories fade. A time will probably come when that landscape seems unfamiliar... the smell distant ... the smile new.

Yet, resilient as I am, that only makes me want to remember more.

I am hopeless.

return of the mu'umu'u.

I probably shouldn't even get started on style, but while living in London it is hard not to get angry about. Though I am usually a supporter of fashion, lately I have grown jaded with "style." I don't know how things are progressing on the other side of the pond, but here big, baggy and shapeless are about as hot as a black leather car seat after 3 hours in an unshaded parking lot -- in July. Yowza.

Are any of you familiar with a muʻumuʻu (or as it is often misspelled, muumuu)? For those of you lucky enough not to be ... it is a loose Hawaiian dress that hangs straight down from the shoulders. Brilliantly colored patterns adorn these hideous things which can usually only be found on genuinely unattractive people. (Excuse me for being harsh, but I only speak the truth.) Since there is no constraint around the waist or hips, they are popular for pregnant women, as well as the women who look like they're pregnant (but have really just had a few too many tubs of ice cream.) At a local yard sale a few years ago, I modeled one of these lovely gowns much to the hilarity of several dozen onlookers.

Why were the onlookers laughing? Well -- Because muʻumuʻu's are ugly. Everbody knows that, right?

Right?

Aparently not. I don't know if London missed out on the world deciding that muʻumuʻu's were forever banned from being cool, or if the style gods at Versace and Dior are just playing a joke on all of us ... but somehow muʻumuʻu's are in. It is almost impossible to walk 10 minutes from my doorstep without seeing a few Londoners doning the latest craze.

Now I am not one who hates style. In fact, I generally think I am quite welcoming to the "art of fashion." But muʻumuʻu's are just one place I will not go. Here is a picture of my failed shopping day a couple weeks ago. The shirt was so ugly, I just had to snap photographic proof.

My mission has been simple - a blouse that would wear over jeans or a skirt. Two hours on Oxford Street and I was UNABLE to find a shirt that proved I had a waist. Instead, these frumpy maternity muʻumuʻu's ruled the racks. Where has the world's sense of feminity gone if all we wear are unflattering curtains?

I've decided to tune out of fashion until all this mess is over. Please, do give me a nudge and wake me up if you see signs of a waist or bustline anywhere.

Oh, and don't get me started on skinny jeans.

a perfect holiday.

Not much can beat a perfect day at the beach. You know the kind I'm talking about. Just enough sun to make your skin glisten without breaking into a full sweat ... a slight breeze that makes the loose pieces of your hair dance gently around your face ... cool water that nips your toes, causing you to second guess your initial decision to test the waters ... ahhh ... It is bliss!

This past weekend I was afforded such a luxury at Brighton, one of England's most popular shore destinations. Between sunning on the warm stones, strolling around the pier and ducking in and out of trendy boutiques I had the perfect one-day get-away. Have a taste of my trip in this slide show I threw together. The song couldn't be more perfect since we were technically on an island in the sun...



Unfortunately, now I have several final papers that need attention. Looks like that will be my last holiday for a while!

life as a book.

Firsts are always things that we find worthy enough to commit to memory. Though we are flooded with information and events on a daily basis, firsts seem to have a sticking power beyond algebra or present participles. The first few moments on an unaided bicycle. The first disappointing grade on a school paper. The first traumatic day after an awful haircut. Our lives are an endless string of firsts. Yet even among all the important firsts, the ones dearest to the heart are those that are most lucid. The first kiss. The first crush. The first broken heart.

I was reflecting on my first broken heart a couple days ago, and it got me thinking about…books. Non-sequitor maybe, but stick with me on this one.

When I was in the seventh grade, I was “the new girl” in school. As is typical for most new girls, I became the instant affection of a dozen seventh grade boys. Though I had my pick of the batch, something about Craig caught my attention. He liked good music, had good hair and wore funny t-shirts… what else could a girl want? One fateful day I told my friend, who told his friend, who told him that I liked him – after which – he told his friend, who told my friend, who told me that he liked me too. It was official. We were “going-out.”

Our love may not have been the strongest in the history of mankind, but it was nice. We sat next to each other in class and walked around the field during recess – all the telltale signs of a solid twelve-year-old relationship. One day, however, things began to sour. Craig stopped waiting for me after class. I no longer got thoughtful notes folded into delicate origami shapes. Recess was spent sitting on the brick wall, overlooking Craig and his friends play flag football. Within the week, Craig broke up with me via a note (how typical), which was delivered during homeroom.

Getting broken up with is hard enough, much less in front of an entire classroom of seventh grade nincompoops. I swallowed hard, choking back the tingling fire that had set ablaze in the seat of my throat. As the tears began to come I was desperate to find a distraction. Reaching into my desk for a disguise, I pulled out a copy of The Giver. I was twelve-years-old, broken-hearted, and crying in front of my peers. There was nothing else I could do but hide behind the hardback cover of a book until it was safe enough to come out.

In a way, that book saved my day. It served as a shield from embarrassment … from my first broken heart. The Giver gave me another world (much better and more interesting than my own) to escape to for the day.

While engrossed in literature there is a comfort that all has been said and done. The future is certain, lying just a few pages ahead in solid black and white. Even if you are halfway through the book, you know that the end is coming. Even if you want to change things, you can’t. Even if you hate the book, you always have the option to stop reading. Things are just easier when you read them in a book.

Reality isn’t quite as generous. Every moment is filled with uncertainty and the weighted thought that all your actions impact your future. You can’t flip to the next chapter, or reread a previous one. You can’t rest assure that the end is already certain. To be quite honest, reality isn’t a convenient as books.

It is however, much more exciting.

ribbs worn shoes.

Driven by a sense of retrospection, I read through the essay that helped to get me selected for this London experience. What I found were words that at one point I practically knew by heart. This essay was the center of my world for a while -- partly because of its importance to my study abroad plans, but also because of the healing that it provided me. I thought I would share the portions of my essay that touched on Mr Ribb so that all of you could get an idea of why I wanted to come in the first place...

As long as I can remember, I have wanted to study abroad. Before I even knew what was beyond my house in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, I knew I had to be out there; out in a world where my comfort zone is pressed, where history and modernity collide, where people can break from the rhythm of their lives, if only just for a moment. I knew I wanted learn things that cannot be taught, which can only be acquired through life. Now, finally, an opportunity has come for me to not only visit a country abroad, but to become part of a larger community.

Community is a feeling I know very well. Since moving from my house in Pennsylvania, I have lived in a string of small cities and towns that offered some wonderful friends. One of the people who I had been closest to in my life was my high school Latin teacher, Olof Ribb. On the first day of class, he put a picture on the board of two girls sitting under a tree. “Puellae sub arbore sedent,” he said to a room full of blank freshmen faces. “Sub arbore sedent puellae,” he said again, as he pointed to the tree and then to the girls. After four or five minutes of this, it finally clicked. “The girls sit under the tree,” I thought to myself. Little did I know that this was only the beginning of what I would learn from Mr. Ribb…

Olof Ribb would appear to be a simple man to those who don’t know him. Though he turned 59 this year, he still sleeps in a twin bed in a three room apartment. When looking around his living room, you can see what he truly values. Books line his shelves with the names Aristotle, Homer, and Isabelle Allende laid in gold on each spine. The books are in Spanish, Latin, Italian and German—all of which he can speak and read fluently. On his walls hang treasures from distant lands, each probing a hundred questions from your mind. A small, funny looking statue sits on his coffee table demanding your attention with its absurdity. It is a wooden relic from India, a place he’s only been once but yearns to return to one day.

Olof does not spend his money on his home or his car. To him, tangible wealth is worth nothing. What Olof thinks made him wealthy, is his sense of the world. Wealth is nothing that can be juggled among fingertips, but rather the blueprints of the life you have lived. When visiting his house, several friends and I made fun of his twin bed. He just laughed saying “Well, I’m not really in it much,” as he pointed to a wall with a world map that was littered with push pins to represent the places he had been.

When Olof travels, he doesn’t miss a beat. Spending most of his summers exploring Denmark or Sweden, he comes home with hour’s worth of stories to tell. He went to a spa in Norway, where after sitting in a hot tub, patrons would recline in the snow until their skin stop tingling. After renting a bicycle in Italy, he biked along the shore until he reached a place so remote that he skinny dipped in the sea. Though all of his stories were exciting to hear, they would also make me sad: I had no stories of my own. Hearing about his life forced me to evaluate my own. With introspection I’ve seen how naive I am about things outside of ‘my world’ and am now eager to expand my horizons.

On the last day of school, Mr. Ribb took our small advanced Latin class to Olive Garden for dinner. While dining on crab stuffed ravioli, breadsticks, and Italian salad, he gave a little speech about how much our class had meant to him. He spoke to the room full of adults who no longer wore ‘blank freshmen faces’ but rather smiling-through-tears faces of admiration. He gave each of us a card with his contact information and a special quote that he picked out for each of us to remember. I recall blinking through tears to look down and read my card.

“The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page.”
- Saint Augustine
Read on, Olivia!

Why he chose that quote for me, I can never imagine; but, ever since the quote has had profound impact on me. My choice to study abroad is as much educational as it is spiritual. Yes, I want to go for all the educational benefits, but I also want a renewed look at myself and my country. I feel that spending this time abroad will broaden my awareness, making me a more rounded person.

After a short struggle with cancer, Olof Ribb died on January 17, 2006. He was only fifty nine years old.

I was stunned. I was confused. I did not cry right away. Since I was not with him when he passed, it was hard for me to convince myself that he was really gone. Two weeks went by, and still, I had not fully accepted his death. Over winter break I flew to Colorado to see some relatives. On the flight, I was lucky enough to get a window seat, since it was such a beautiful day. I sat with my forehead glued to the window, enjoying the clouds lit golden by the sun, when a song swept through my ears…

“The soles of your shoes
are all worn down,
The time for sleep is now,
It’s nothing to cry about,
Cuz we’ll be together other soon.”

The song is by Death Cab for Cutie and is called “I Will Follow You Into The Dark.” Something about those lines gave me peace. The soles of Olof’s shoes were all worn down. He died a happy man having lived his life well and having seen so many things.

My shoes, however, have yet to be broken in. I am ready to be abroad, to see the world in a new perspective. I am ready to be a Londoner. Having spent years preparing myself to embark on an abroad adventure, I am finally ready to start reading that book.

END

And the good news is, my shoes are looking fairly worn these days...

czech marks the spot.

A lot of you have been asking about my trip to Prague this Spring Break. Here's a quick video with some of the highlights. Do mind my voice however. I've got a bit of a cold so did well to sound pubescent. I had a lovely trip despite the frigid temperatures!


A few things the video missed:

• The best gelato I've ever had
• The fantastic hotel we stayed in - complete with a hot tub and sauna (which we abused)
• The Internet Engineering Task Forcers with whom we shared Goulash and good beer

Overall a great trip! Next on the agenda is Dublin, Ireland later this month. I'm sure we'll have no problem getting into trouble there.

silence of settling.

I know I've let you down lately. My devotion to the blog has become awry as I grow more and more comfortable here. Don't blame me though, blame the experience. As my days tick on, I am feeling less and less the excitement of the mundane. It's not a sad thing, so do not fret. It is more a settling of self; a slipping into comfort. Think of it as putting on a pair of trousers fresh from the warm dryer.

A couple of months ago a trip to the grocery store would have been a cultural experience, worthy of some lofty thought like, "The patterns and rhythms by which people nourish themselves indicate more than just a cultural difference... and so on" (A lifetime in academia has taught me to fluff with the best of them.) But now the grocery store is nothing more than an institution where my math skills are contrasted with my palette - Chicken breast for £3 or a loaf of bread, tub of butter, pack of digestives and bag of carrots for £2.50? It's always a tough choice, but my wallet usually wins.

A couple of months ago I may have mentioned to you my life plan. Some array of the following might have come out, in no particular order: Graduate school, journalist, politics, law school, hobo, Trinidad and Tobago, university professor, optometrist, restaurant, business or prostitution. (Okay, just kidding on the last one - really.) But now I am possibly a little less set on having one certain goal, and more excited about seeing where opportunity lets me drift.

I know all these changes were probably inevitable, and with due time they might have happened in Elon. But London has been like a catalyst, giving me the room and nourishment to reassess myself and my goals. I am left with one question though, and I am not entirely sure that I will ever know the answer. How much of an effect does environment truly have on a person? Will I be different because of my time here? Or has experiencing myself in a different culture only allowed me to see things that were there all along?

non parlo italiano.

It always amazes me how much the world can change over a two-hour flight through the darkness of the European sky. One minute I am lugging my bag onto the tube and the next I am holding onto my seat as I fly around a blind curve on the edge of a mountain in Switzerland. Really, travel is quite mind-blowing. Just think that you could walk from Portugal to China and watch culture change 60 times along the way... it's inspiring.

I spent my past weekend with Sam and his aunt Alesia, at her lovely home in Lugano, Switzerland. Amidst a chaos of small windy roads that just had enough space for one and a half cars (despite claims they were two-lane roads) I found a serene getaway from the hustle and bustle of London. Like a toddler sitting at the grown-ups table, I was able to understand little clips of the language here and there, but for the most part found those speaking around me to be white noise. The speedy flutter of Italian was nothing more than a soundtrack to the beautiful scenery and good company.

The morning after Sam and I arrived we headed down to the lake in Lugano to explore a bit of the town. Watch shops, high-end retail and cute cafes lined the cobblestone streets that wound through the city. I loved the vibrant colors that were affluent on the signs and buildings. England and America seem to have a color-phobia when it comes to architecture that is rather dissapointing.

Feeling through our sense of adventure, Sam and I headed for a hike along the water where we were told some other cool villages could be found. Along the way the sights were pretty spectacular. Homes were just stacked upon one another in a way that is really intriguing. Some homes looked more like a playhouse that a child might dream up as opposed to a legitamate residence. What I would have given to explore some of them...

On Friday we went skiing in the -- get this -- Swiss Alps. I know you're impressed. Somehow the beauty of the Alps managed to surpass expectation by leaps and bounds. There are few sights more incredible than miles and miles of snow covered mountains. It's entirely belittling, so gave me a head full of lofty thoughts. Not much can beat thinking about life, faith and love as you surge 30mph down a mountain - perhaps Swiss chocolate, but not much less.

On the topic of Swiss Chocolate. Yes, it is probably some of the most delicious chocolate I've ever had. And yes, I got loads of it that I plan on bringing back to the states. I might save a bar or two for Halloween and give it out to some lucky trick-or-treater...we'll see.

All in all I really enjoyed Switzerland and Italy. The most credit for my experience goes to Sam and Alesia, who were fantastic travel buddies, hilarious story-tellers, exceptional skiers and all around amazing people. I suppose I must also make a heartfelt mention of Roxie, Alesia's dog, who laid on the rug warming in the sun, squirmed at the thought of getting a treat and let me oodle annoyingly over her cuteness. I miss my dogs, so spending time with one was a treat.

Hopefully if the financial and logistical gods smile upon me I will get a chance to return to Switzerland before I tuck my tail between my legs, lower my ears and head back for the United States.

translate this.

There are few languages in this world that can defy cultural boundaries. The language of human suffering or happiness are ones that instantly pop to mind. No matter who you are or where you're from, the sight of a crying woman or laughing baby invokes a certain understanding about that person that is solid and definable. An Indian, Chinese, Australian, American, Iraqi, Mexican, Greek or Ethiopian will all understand the same thing in the same instant. It is a language that is completely human, and we all grow up speaking it.

Yesterday I discovered another international language in which I am quite fluent--the language of soccer.

Inspired by yesterdays unseasonably warm sun and clear sky, my flatmates and I headed for Hyde Park with a soccer ball and sense of ambition -- what can I say, we pack light. We found a sunny patch of grass in the middle of the park that was just begging for some company and began to play. We started out with some awkward passes before moving into a game of keep away. A few minutes later we were approached by a collection of characters from all over the world. Really, it was like the cast of It's A Small World from Disney-- several Australians, a Greek, two Indians, a Russian and then our squadron of five Americans. They were looking for some people to assemble a pick-up game, and we were just crazy enough to agree.

After the teams were divided up our game began. Though nobody had introduced names we were able to communicate nonetheless. "Hey, hey, hey" means "give me the ball" in every language. A knowing look before a throw-in means "this ball is coming to you." And my favorite, "AIEAH" means "Oh Shit! They scored!"

Though we were all strangers from different lands, an hour and a half under the warming London sun with a soccer ball was enough to make us friends. I headed home with dirt smeared calves, a slight pull in my thigh and a powdery face from where the sweat had dried. Never in my time here have I felt so whole and satisfied. Getting back on a soccer field was in a way like finding a home here -- albeit in the center of Hyde Park!

you spin me.

There is something that I need to get off of my chest. It is about time that I confess my new love. It is a love that has burned before, but never so strongly. Housed in morning newspapers, broadcast packages and behind the computer screen, it fuels the day. If you know me, you probably have already seen my affection, but now I am officially declaring it. I love political news.

Having spent the weekend in Harrogate at the Spring Conference for the Liberal Democrats, I find myself somewhat inspired. My weekend was consumed with scurrying around the conference center at 5 a.m. to deliver press clippings to important people. Other than that I helped out around our make-shift office, editing press releases and compiling lists of journalists. I also managed to sit in on a few speeches, from which I learned an extra ordinate amount about the party. I am starting to believe more and more that I might be a Liberal Democrat somewhere inside. Yeah, I've been drinking the Kool-Aid.

Aside from work, I did a lot of observing. Just watching how those around me carefully construct press releases or organize a speaker for the nightly news is vastly interesting. In the end, I have planned to be on the receiving end of all of these messages, so it is valuable to see how the spin works from the inside.

However, the longer that I am here the more that I have been thinking about my own career goals. Working spin has a certain thrill to it that was unexpected. Though I have always stood by the valency and nobility of being a journalist, there is an appeal to the darker, dirtier side of working PR. 'It's the truth -- but on my terms' type stuff. I think that political PR has an appeal because of the importance of the repercussions of the message. PR engages the devious, critical thinking, somewhat conniving and incredibly passionate parts of my personality... and it feels so good!

rain-soaked matisse.

I believe that everybody has a couple adjectives by which they can be defined. These words weave together to paint a loose picture of the person -- something like a poorly contrived watercolour painting. Though details are indefinite, shapes and figures can still be perceived. Picture a Matisse painting that has been sitting in the rain for a few hours ... or stare at a bright light for 10 seconds then close your eyes -- paying close attention to the floating neon shapes. Yes, somehow in my imagination these blurry images can represent the foundation of a personality. Don't ask me how. Just go with it.

I don't know if it is my time here in London, or the natural growth of self -- but I am beginning to wonder if the adjectives that I had chosen as mine are still valid. Is my definition of self supposed to be the true person I am, or an idealistic person I aspire to be? One one hand I want to pursue an idealistic sense of self. But on the other hand, I wonder if I am neglecting parts of my personality that I should be embracing. Is "me" good enough? Or should I keep working at being "better than me"?

I realize that this is not the most interesting post. In fact, no matter how I phrase my sentences, it really is quite confusing. But here is the carry-home message: I am thinking... a lot... about who I am and what I want to be. I am at an extraordinary point in my life where I have an incredible amount of control over my future. If I wanted to, I could change my major and alter where I will be in 5 years completely. It is an uncomfortable amount of power that I'm not quite sure what to do with.

In short, every decision that I make today will play into my life 50 years from now.

No pressure.

xin nian yu kuai.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Chinese, that means Happy New Year. It may have been weeks since you thought about the New Year, but not so fast. Just as those resolutions were starting to fade, the Chinese New Year whirls through as a reminder of how quickly you failed to achieve them. sigh.

In good faith, I spent my Sunday afternoon in Chinatown. Lured by the promise of an extravagant parade and the possibility of free food, it was too good a chance to pass up. Unfortunately, we missed most of the parade and the only free things in sight were red envelopes full of cheap chocolate. I did manage to hunt down some tasty Lo Mein and a couple dancing dragons though!

Tomorrow is one of my most beloved days of the church calendar. Not much can top a day where you can guilelessly gorge yourself on syrup smothered pancakes in the name of your God. Yes, being a Christain has its perks.

Although I am a little dissapointed at the commercialization of Shrove Tuesday in England. To the masses it is known as "Pancake Day," and they couldn't tell you any of the religious reasoning for the feast. It is so commercialized that it warrents a special display in the grocery stores -- complete with flour, nutella and lemon juice. What is this display missing, I ask you? Syrup. Why? They don't put syrup on their pancakes here. They squeeze fresh lemon on top and coat it in sugar. Hmm... I'll give it a shot tomorrow but we'll see.

I did manage to find a tiny bottle of "Maple Flavoured Syrup" hidden in the corner of the store. There wasn't any Mrs. Butterworth's to be found. I am not sure if this stuff will work but my fingers are crossed that it does the job!

spandex afternoon.

Two weeks into my time here, and I could not say more about my experience. I have found that studying abroad has already done more than open my eyes to a new way of life. It is helping me realize the things that I take for granted. For me, a few of these things are boxed macaroni and cheese, the word vitamin being pronounced correctly, free nights and weekend cell phone minutes and the Elon gym 30 seconds from my dorm room.

In mourning of my home gym, I decided to go on a run today. Decked out in my cold-weather tight spandex pants and track jacket I headed down to the canal near our flat for a nice run on the tow path.

At first everything was lovely. The placid water was broken only by the gentle bobbing of a duck. A pair of cyclists pedaled leisurely along side one another. The sun was almost warm and the wind was slight. All that I could hear was the rolling murmur of the water and the repetitive cadence of my running shoes. I'm sure you get the picture -- it was beautiful.

I was soon confronted by the end of the tow path, so decided to head around a couple of blocks before circling back to the flats. I felt adventurous for venturing into uncharted territory (can you tell where this story is going yet?) I started out on a side street with the intention of taking the first left, after which I planned to take another left and end up back at the canal. Good idea, right? In most circumstances, I would have been fine, but in London they don't believe in city blocks. Apparently angled roads, dead ends and alleyways were all the rage in the 1800s. And all this time I thought all they cared about gold, tea and world domination!

My plan to take lefts turned out to be a disaster! Instead I found two dead ends, had to jump a fence to get on the sidewalk, ran through a outdoor market, nearly got killed by a double-decker tour bus, and, I kid you not, got chased for about 30 second by a loose dog. Really, I am not making this up.

I wound up at Paddington Station -- one of the biggest transportation hubs in London. Now it is one thing to be running through a neighborhood in spandex. But it is an entirely different matter to be in the center of 100 people, trying to cross the street in spandex. All I could do was keep running, because it just doesn't get much worse than walking in spandex. I convinced myself that if I kept running they might not notice how out of place I was among the Marks & Spencer clad swarm of young professionals.

I heard a couple guys whistle. But mostly people just starred. I kept reassuring myself that I would never see these people again. Oh please God, never again.

Thirty minutes later, with amazing luck (and utilization of my internal compass), I found my way back to the canal. Fueled on embarrassment, I sprinted home, thus completing one of the fastest runs I have ever taken. Good exercise, indeed. I guess I can continue on without my beloved gym.

Lesson Learned: Always look at a map and plan out a route before venturing into the world in spandex pants.

chasing childhood.

Isn't it tragic how we spend most of our childhoods pretending to be adults? Armed with cute faces and innocent eyes, we have almost anything at our disposal. Instead we spend our free time envying the big kids and "playing house." As far as we are concerned being a grown-up is about being cool, driving a car and staying up past nine o'clock.

As a kid, I was really excited about getting a job and I knew I wanted to be a librarian. Why I was attracted to the field is beyond me, but I knew it was my calling. I set up a library in my room, organized the books by title and invented a make-shift dewey decimal system. Calling my parents up the stairs, I insisted they check a book out, but warned about what would happen should they be late to return it. Oh my.

Now that I have finally reached adulthood, I have figured what it is really all about -- bills, work and responsibility. I am suing Barbie and The Game of Life for false advertisement. How did they convince me that being an adult was so much fun?

I am griping about adulthood because we visited Hyde Park today. Hiding in a sea of lush green fields we found the Peter Pan Playground. A pirate ship was the center of attention, complete with hanging ropes and even a plank. Fun looking obstacles surrounded the ship and a shreded tire bedding buffered any falls. Since we were grown-ups without children, we weren't even allowed into the playground. Harsh.

We were able to take a step back in time with a visit to the Peter Pan statue. Naturally we all took turns posing. Also, a trip to Hamley's (London's answer to F.A.O. Schwarz) provided a little waunder down memory lane. I put together a slideshow so you can follow my nostalgic few days.

Try not to tear up... being an adult has its perks too. For example...you can go on all the rides at Disney World?

mounting culture.

I am quite sure that I have done more in the past week than I normally do in a month while I am at home. While the work load is still light, I am trying to really take advantage of the free time that I have. Living in one of the cultural capitals of the world, I have been like a fly to light to see museums, performances and historic sights.

Firstly, there is the theatre. Yes it is -re not -er, I am part British now, remember? On Wednesday, my flatmates and I treated ourselves to our first big time show. "We Will Rock You," a musical centering around the greatest hits of rock gods, Queen, was at the top of our list of things to see -- partly because we love Queen, but also because it was rumored the tickets were cheap. What can I say, we're college students! In the end, good decision. The show was part musical and part rock concert that left us singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of our lungs (and quite out of key.) "Thunderbolt of lightning -- very, very frightening!"

Thursday, Bethany and I decided to infiltrate high society by attending a performance of Agrippina at the English National Opera. Wearing our most lovely outfits, we sat amidst a flock of AARP-qualified opera lovers. The theatre was absolutely lovely, adorned with gold embellishments, marble accents and intricate carvings. In stark contrast the show was actually quite crude, featuring unexpected partial nudity and a select array of words that I will allow you to guess. I fully enjoyed the show, partly for its well contrived plot but also for its surprising humor.

As a final note, it snowed in London yesterday. Probably just a couple of inches, but practically the whole city was shut down. It was rumored to be the worst snow in 10 years, which is hard to believe considering most of it was melted by 3. A lot of the underground trains were closed down or severely delayed, so our class was cancelled. Alas, there truly is a place in this world that is worse at coping with snow than North Carolina. Who would have thought.

london alone.

Being alone in a big city is supposed to be a scary thing. As little girls we are told stories of monsters and beasts, when really they should warn us of rapists and thieves. Today was my day to venture into the city on my own accord. Armed with a London map, guidebook, tube pass and cell phone I made my debut as "alone in the city."

I began my venture with a trip to the Press Office of the Liberal Democrats. Starting on Wednesday I will be interning there twice a week. In an effort to ensure I do not get lost on the first day, I took a dry run to help establish my route. As I walked out of the Westminster tube station, I was instantly dwarfed by the overwhelming "Big Ben." I cannot think of a more magnificent symbol to see every morning on my way to work. It's like a little reminder: "You're in London. Do something!" Just a minutes walk from Parliament I stumbled across the office. It's set on the corner of a cozy side street. Not much traffic -- which is great, as I am still getting used to the whole "look right" concept.

Next I wound my way over to Westminster Abbey. In an attempt to cheat the system, I decided not to pay the entrance fee and instead return for a free service one evening. I did show my support by buying a postcard from the gift shop though! I am collecting postcards from nearly everywhere I visit and will be writing journal entries on the back. Hopefully by the end I should have a couple dozen postcards that should serve as a really nice, meaningful souvenir.

For the fun of it, I hopped on a random city bus and vowed to jump of wherever something looked interesting. Carpe Diem at its finest? I think so. I sat next to an elderly man on his way to see his daughter, Michelle. We had a stimulating conversation about the advantages of coming from a society where Peanut Butter is a regular part of the diet. Score one America.

A short ride later, I ended up in Trafalgar Square and explored The National Gallery. For a couple pounds donation I rented an audio guide. I was completely impressed and overwhelmed with the history and stories behind each piece of artwork. It will take the entire time I am here to make my way through the museum, and I am excited to have only just begun.

After all my adventures I met some friends at the premier of "Music & Lyrics" at the Odeon. From 40 feet I spotted a very handsome Hugh Grant and blushing Drew Barrymore. Quite a contrast from the art museum, I know, but since it was a first for me, it was a big deal nonetheless.

Returning home with feet that burned from walking and a head that throbbed with exhaustion, I felt triumphant. A day that I thought would be boring and drab turned into one of the best I have had yet. Solitary travel is something that I would have once feared, but am now growing quite keen on. It makes good time for reflection which would have otherwise been filled with conversations. I will be secretly hoping for more lonely days to come.

questioning cadence.

Only a few days in and I am already feeling myself become part of the ebb and flow of the city. Swipe card. Step down. Step down. Step down. Turn left. Doors open. Step in. Grab bar. Wisp clatter. Train rattles. Breaks squeal. Doors open. Step out. Turn left. Turn right. Step up. Step up. Step up. Swipe card. Fresh air. There is an underlying cadence to just about everything. From flutter of the British accent to the gentle rumble of the underground.

The first few days -- I was awkward. Unsure of my surroundings, I felt like a baby calf wobbling on long feeble legs. But given four days to grow and learn, I have come very far. I actually think that at some point I will feel a part of this place that amazes me so much.

However, the more I become part of this place, the more I am forced to think about who I am. I have to decide what parts of my identity are mine, and what is just something that comes along with living in America. The more I assimilate to British culture, the more I wonder if I should. Perhaps being here isn't about fitting in. But rather about being willing to stand out.


Peeling a person apart from their culture can have two results...

1. The culture is so much a part of that person that they are empty and lifeless without it.
2. By stripping away ones culture, you are allowing the true, undefined self to thrive.

In hope and fear of these two options, I am being careful with myself as I make this transition. Facing the gap between culture and self isn't particularly easy -- like removing a hat without knowing if your hair has managed to keep its shape, or has gone awry. I'm only hoping that my scenario turns out more like number two, and not at all like option one. Will my hair look good without the trusty cap?

a weary two days.

After months of thinking, wondering and daydreaming, I finally arrived in London yesterday. Unfortunatly, I can barley remember my first few moments. A painful jet-lag hangover stuck with me most of the day. Even after a short nap I was mixing words and muddling thoughts. I actually started to write a blog entry yesterday, but after rereading what I wrote, deleted the post in its entirety.

The weariness broke soon after dinner. Canden, a friend who recently graduated from Elon, took us out to a restaurant for fish and chips (of course). It was nice to see a familiar face, especially since she's already been here a month, and knows her way around the city quite well. The first night in any big city can be daunting. But knowing that I live here and need to be learning street names, tube stops and where to get a deal on milk -- it can be a lot! I've already had to remind myself that this is not vacation -- class starts next week so I'd better work fast!

I cut together this short slideshow a little bit ago. I will not lie -- it is kind of crude. But I figured the point was not to produce a masterpiece, but rather convey an idea of the day to day life. This one covers the first two days.



I only really showed a little bit of the flat. But to go into more detail -- I'm living with 7 other girls. There's 3 bedrooms, all of them look pretty much like mine. Each room has its own bathroom as well. It was certainly a pleasant suprise. The rooms are a lot larger than I expected! Lovely!

the empty room.

Moving is exhausting. And I don't think I am very good at it. Instead of putting everything neatly into boxes, I tend to try and utilize what I have. A rolling suitcase becomes a portable bookshelf. My laundry bag, a linen closet. Then there is the sock basket that overflows with the random things that had no other place: an alarm clock, a half empty bottle of shampoo, a blue case of waxed dental floss and a pink polka-dotted sock (whose pair I have seen, but am not sure where.)

The only thing that I really like about moving is the accomplished feeling that usually follows. When I woke up this morning my dorm room was full of lots of things. Tall things, heavy things, things to be thrown away and things to be wrapped delicately in newspaper and placed into a sturdy box. But as I left, it was an empty shell waiting for its next tenant.

I like the optimism of an empty room. It has the potential to become anything. Perhaps it is my affinity for Home and Garden Television that draws me to appreciate such a clean slate. But I think it might also have something to do with my desire to start anew every so often. If you continue to read my blog, you will find that I am awfully fond of symbols. I see them practically everywhere thanks to a lifetime of quality English teachers.

For me, the empty room and my life are kind of similar right now. They are both getting ready to be refilled with new things. They are both awaiting new life.

leaving not losing.

With a week left to go in my countdown to London I find myself with a set of conflicting emotions. An overwhelming excitement builds within me as I daydream about my first few moments in London. Will I comprehend where I am? Will I be too tired to care? Or will I run out immediately and begin enjoying the city-life that I have been eagerly anticipating? Probably a mixture of all three. Though I have spent the past year thinking about my stay in London, I know that the minute I am there, none of that will matter. My daily devotion of imagining where I'll visit, who I'll meet and even what I'll wear will dissipate as reality sets in. It will be scary -- it will be awesome.

I've always loved doing things that push me. I believe that you cannot find the edge of comfort if you do not seek to surpass it. In many ways, this trip is about pushing outward. I'm leaving Elon, a place that I love to be, despite my constant criticism. I'm leaving the comfort of family a half-dozen states away. I'm leaving chances that I would have taken and opportunities that I would have met. I'm leaving a boyfriend with whom I am very much in love. I'm leaving the three jobs which have helped finance this endeavour. I'm leaving a little brother who turns 13 too soon for me to believe. I'm leaving friends who say they'll keep in touch -- but we'll see. Yes, indeed, I am leaving a lot.

What I do keep telling myself which helps to stifle my fears is this: "Olivia. You are leaving, not losing." Because really, everything I am leaving will not be lost. Different -- probably. But certainly not lost.