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.