Ceilidh in the Quad

I've had a pretty busy week, and I've been very remiss in keeping up with this blog.  My apologies.  [See, I warned you this would happen.]

Last Friday, I went to a ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee) at my university.  I didn't know anyone there, so I started introducing myself to people.  Because my choices are either get used to introducing myself to strangers or stop going to events without a posse, and four years of undergrad didn't cure me of that, so nothing's going to, right?

Anyway, I did not properly understand what a ceilidh was when I bought the ticket.  I thought it was a concert of Gaelic music, and since I enjoy Gaelic music, I thought it would be fantastic fun.  Turns out, a ceilidh is a dance, dancing done to Gaelic music.  No worries, I like dancing.

Well, I didn't know anyone there, but when the music started, I looked around, found an unattached guy, walked over and asked if he needed a partner.  We joined one of the sets and had a great time.  We danced together the rest of the night.  The moral of the story, you actually can people are parties and dances.  [Normally, I'd advice a girl that you don't meet the love of your life or, well, anyone at frat parties, but I'd hardly characterize a ceilidh as a frat party.  If frats did host ceilidh's, I'd probably have gone to more frat parties as an undergrad.  Said notion extends to the analogies involve strip clubs.]

I actually wanted to blog all about how fun the ceilidh was, but I basically danced until my feet wanted to die [never go to a ceilidh in heels], and by the time I got home, all I really wanted to do was get my boots off and collapse on the bed.  So the blogging got a bit delayed.  oops.

I used the rest of my weekend to wander through London, going to places of interest like St. Bart's hospital and the site of the old Newgate Prison, and drinking tea.  All in all, it was a pretty good weekend.  Let's hope this coming weekend is just as good.

A Week in a Whirl

My first week was something of a blur.  My sister came with me, and so we spent our time between trying to fit out my apartment and trying to see many historical sites.  I'd been in London briefly but it was her first time, so I felt guilty taking up too much time shopping when she hadn't seen things.

Things I Learned/Experienced in That Week.

1. It is possible to close out a museum.  A.K.A. They will kick you out of Kensington Palace.  Before I got a phone, my sister and I were sort of rubbish at keeping track of time.  I didn't realize how close we were to closing until a guide came over, told us the most direct route to the door, and said they were closing in five minutes.  Guess what, my sister still stopped to read exhibits.  I still shake my head in exasperation.
2. Westminster Abbey brings out my inner Shakespeare Geek.  Did you know they have Henry V's tomb there?  Why, yes, I did stop to read the St. Crispin's Day speech.  How'd you guess?
3. Paris is so beautiful you could just cry.  And, if you're me, you actually will.  My sister and I took the Chunnel over to Paris.  My sister studied abroad there, and I'd never been.  Now those two days really were a blur.  I cried in Notre Dame; realized that if all churches were like St Chappelle then people would pray more; and got lost in the Louvre.  [My sister's and my streak of getting lost in castles and palaces continues.]  Also, just so you know, there's a time difference between London and Paris.  I used to know that, and I forgot, and it tripped me up majorly.  Yay.

I also registered at school and for my classes and got a not too hideous student ID.  The guy printing my ID and the girl who had been in line before me both had the same birthday as I did.  That's never happened to me before.  [Okay, my twin and I have the same birthday, but that hardly counts, because a) I don't remember meeting here and b) there's only one of her, so it's not exactly the same level of coincidence.]

Eventually, my sister had to get on her plane back to America.  I think I did a very manful job of not crying in the airport.  She'd have been pleased.  That's her rule: Never cry in public.  I've heard of worse rules.

Strangers on a Plane

Sorry I have been remiss with the blogging.  [Somehow, I guess that this is a sentence that we might all have to get used to.  My apologies in advance.]

I flew out to London on Friday the 13th, because apparently my family and I decided to tempt fate. [Okay, if I'm being honest, I'm not superstitious, but it's sort of fun to engage in the ritual.  Unless, we're in a theater.  In which case, I will knife you.  Not really superstitious, but I will hold you to the ritual.]  The flight went pretty well, actually.  My sister and I sat next to a very charming man from Vancouver. We talked for a while about where we were going and why, where we were from recently or otherwise, and, oddly enough, the British Royal Family.  [He was quite surprised that my twin and I kept any sort of track of the monarchy.  Are Americans usually entirely ignorant of such things?  My father, I'm sure, would consider the ignorance a point of pride -- he'd know, but he'd pretend he didn't -- but I'm not sure my dad speaks for the group.]

The really funny part came about mid-way through the conversation.  The man looked at us and said, "I noticed you were signing earlier."

Hannah and I exchanged looks.  "Old habit," I said.

"So, you used to be deaf," he said.  "Did you get an implant?"  When I looked at him, he commented that the implant technology seemed to have improved greatly.

It was at that point that my sister explained that I am not nor have ever been deaf.  Nor is our sibling -- I think he asked if we had any to check for more deafness in the family but that's a no.  The signing's an old habit from a theater group we were a part of called Kids on the Block.  It uses puppetry to teach kids about disabilities.  My twin and I weren't the only ones to pick up some sign, and we've found it useful over the years.  Especially since I don't like shouting about my business on planes.  [Especially since I'm sure no one on that plane really wants to know my business.  It's either weird or boring.  As I'm sure, dear reader, you are coming to realize.  Sorry about that.]

I'm not poking fun at the man for asking.  He was yards and miles more polite about the notion than the many other people who've wondered about my sister or myself.  [To the guy on that flight to Canada, no she is not deaf; no she is not a drunk; no, she is not my girlfriend.  To those boys on the CTA, I don't know which one of us you thought was deaf, but did you not imagine the other one could hear you?  No, okay, you're a bit dim.]  But this man was also one of the few to ever compliment me on the clarity of my diction -- though, as my twin pointed out, he was likely grading on an adjusted scale.

That's must of my story of my flight to London and the charming man who talked with us for a bit.  I've always wanted to have one of those times where you chat with the strangers on your transport and have them not be weirdos [my weirdo stories could be stories for another time if I didn't think they'd bore you lots and lots].

Stay tuned for more adventures [and catching up from my horrendous delay].

This Is The Story Of A Girl

Once upon a time, a college senior began the process of applying to graduate programs.  She was looking for programs in English, as well as a few in theater -- since, apparently, she just couldn't stop herself -- programs that would build on her love of literature, theater, and all things Shakespeare.  Someone, she stumbled upon a description of a M.A. program at University College London, a one year program, Shakespeare in History.  Well, that seemed just perfect.  She'd just spent most of college and the better part of that year studying [read: being a little to invested in to be entirely normal] Shakespeare.  What could be a better program choice?

Of course, there were some concerns.  She'd never been to England before or lived abroad for that long.  Her study abroad [a whole other story you'd certainly rather be spared] hadn't given her the brightest outlook on living abroad either.  But she figured, "What the heck."  She decided to apply, and if she got into UCL's Shakespeare program, well maybe that was a sign that academia was the way to go.  [Ignoring, somehow, that whatever programs she did or did not end up in wouldn't have necessarily been a sign of anything, except maybe impending confusion.]

Luck, fate, and a few happenstances later, she found herself accepting a place at UCL to spend a year studying Shakespeare.  And with a few more incidents and happenstances [and a few instances of blind panic] along the way [which I will probably have the decency to spare you], she has now found herself in England.  [She said, using the passive voice, as if she were swallowed by a whale and didn't, you know, intentionally fly here or something.  Anyway...]

And so begins the story of the year Kelsey Ridge lived in London and studied Shakespeare.