"Where'd you find the ringer?"

I would never have guessed that it would take moving to London to get some damn stage time, but here we are. I now do improv twice a month or so as part of 50:50, a show that is half our in-house improv group, and half an ever-changing line up of guest acts who do other types of comedy, music or performance of some kind. My first show was last Tuesday and while it would make a way better story if something had gone hilariously wrong, it was just a really great time. AND a bunch of wonderful friends came to watch. I am a lucky lady.

In case you were concerned that I had gone a full 24 hours without embarrassing myself, fear not: I popped into Starbucks before the show and ordered a grande 'London Fog' without thinking. The baristas were confused to the highest degree and had no idea what I was trying to ask for. I think they thought I was a moronic North American overcome with the WHIMSY OF TRAVEL."Yes, do get me a crumpet, and a large serving of London Fog, with a side of Prince Harry... am I right, Harriet??" "Oh Charlotte, you are BAD. Look at that policeman's hat!" Yikes.

Attitube

There are no garbage cans at all on the Tube (pronounced "Choobe"). They removed them after the 2005 Underground bombings, apparently. I told a Tube operator that it was kind of a hassle. "Less of a hassle than being blown up, I reckon," he said. "Have a lovely day miss." Touché. 

Night class

(Photo stolen from Kim Villaweever)

WTF, England. A Drama in One Scene

A university campus overlooking the Thames. Three girls eat sad-looking packed lunches in the cafeteria.

England: Ooh I love a cheeky sandwich.

Canada: A cheeky sandwich? What does that even mean? Is this a gross lunch meat thing? 

England: Oh you know, you can just put 'cheeky' in front of things. Cheeky sandwich, cheeky pasty, cheeky jacket potato...

Canada: ...

THE SHARD

Okay, so when I moved into the London Bridge area the first thing I noticed was The Shard, an ambitious-looking but partially-completed construction project that appeared to be about 80% of the way towards becoming a decent-sized skyscraper. I have since learned that The Shard is going to be the tallest building in Europe when it's completed in 20Never and that the current structure is a little under half of its total height. I have also learned that it is the Construction Site that Never Sleeps. Brutal.

However, I am obsessed with this thing. It is gauchely large and so ridiculous and, well, LOOK AT IT:

All the pictures of what it will look like in the future are swathed in the kind of softly emanating, holy glow usually reserved for saint's heads or Barbara Walters specials. The 'vision statements' that are printed on the side of the construction site are also really amazing:

Say no to selfies

My digital camera came in the mail the other day, leading to a thrilling moment where I thought I had mail from a loved one or something, and then was brutally denied. Not that I don't love Amazon for sending me the technology I ordered, I do. Just not as much as I would love real mail from home. (a-hint, a-hint)

Anyway the good news re: the camera really is that I won't be taking lame-o pictures like this anymore to illustrate that I made and then ate a delicious, piping-hot curry (out of tupperware because these are desperate times):

This is also good because it means the auto-timer will not capture me doing this immediately after the first picture: 

I just want mashed potatoes so bad.

Sunset in London from my residence. Photo stolen from Daniel Giacopelli. 

This weekend has been packed with improv workshops, which has been great fun and full of lovely new people (and some old Canadian Improv Games amigos... there is no escape.), but has also left me somewhat homesick. It does not help that today is Canadian Thanksgiving, and I know for a fact that I am missing out on more than one amazing turkey dinner. 

Mostly I've had to turn off my iPod; it is too full of music I associate with people and places that I love in Canada. It's not just the sad songs (or even the good ones) that get me all mopey: Justin Bieber's "Baby" and various tunes from Glee, for instance, recall embarrassing dance parties past that I would like to be reliving right now. Plus, JBiebz has been mocked to my face a number of times since I've moved here... some people are just intimidated by raw talent and true follicular beauty. These tunes are all prime for inducing "misty water coloured memmmmmmorrrrries" moments: 

What'd you do today Monica? Explore the city? Go for a pint with some pals?

Better! I hung out desperately needing to wash my hair and vacuuming my room on my hands and knees.

... with this.

Try not to be jealous, especially when I tell you that I also spent about an hour and a half photocopying most of a book one page at a time. Ahhh the crazy London lifestyle.

Remember when I said my programme sounds cool but is mostly really dorky?

I rest my case.

Henslowe's Diary is basically an oldey-time account book chronicling money lending from a man who also happened to own the Rose theatre. According to some critics he was a bit slow/potentially functionally illiterate. While this has been hotly contested by other scholars, he has recorded several performances of Titus Andronicus as "Tittus & Ondronicus," so you be the judge on that one. In case you're interested (and who wouldn't be?), a man named Robarte borrowed roughly 20 pounds on the 25th of 'febreary,' 1598 for a 'boocke called the myller'.

On the bright side, while I was eagerly and captivated-ly perusing this non-stop thrill ride of a book, the Globe's music department was practicing their military drums/trumpets for the entry of Henry IV later that afternoon, which felt a bit like time travel and made me geek out in a huge way.

In a few weeks or so the actors move out of their dressing rooms in the Globe and then we all get one as a 'study corral'. I'm not crazy about the image of MA students as a bunch of studying bison, but I'm presuming this will be a similar geekcitement opportunity, and am pretty jazzed about it as well.

"Oh my actual God..."

Have moved house, partially because I do everything Brian Rieper tells me to, and partially because tumblr was getting on my nerves. There are just a lot of sardonically captioned photos in my life already, you know? Now you can comment and I can keep track of all seven of you and what you're looking at.

I spent the weekend in Brighton with Hannah, in her home which is the most picturesque British cottage ever created. I literally want to get married in her back garden. (Maybe to her, at this rate.) We mostly explored the local pub scene in torrential rain, failed to get Glastonbury tickets, and watched the X-factor with Hannah's mum. Oh my God you guys. British reality TV is hilarious. Things are just a bit more whacked out, the variety of accents and styles of dress is brilliant, and they are simultaneously dirtier and more intensely earnest and emotional. Plus, they are called things like "I'm Famous and Frightened!" (exclamation mark theirs). In this show, celebrities "spend three nights in a haunted castle and do terrifying challenges for charity."Some other highlights:

Animal Airport
Celebrity Love Island
Baby Ballroom: The Championship
Death Wish Live
Chaos at the Chateau
Flog it!
The House of Tiny Tearaways
The Edwardian Mansion-House

I really hope they are all exactly what they sound like, especially "Flog it!"

Charit-e

Got very lost on the way to a party in Shoreditch hosted by a house full of dancing Greek men. Fortunately, a kind benefactor with an iPhone appeared and gave us very solid directions, as well as information about his own evening’s plans, which included a late night rave/benefit event in an abandoned warehouse, thrown to raise money to save the rainforest. What a hero. When he is not helping lost damsels in distress with his fancy gadgets, he is doing MDMA for the Amazon. The charity raves are held right by my residence apparently, which means I may finally achieve my dream of becoming a philanthropist. It just feels good to help people.

Sisquotable

Today during the first day of my MA programme we were having a very serious academic discussion about a very seriously old and obscure British play called Hengist, King of Kent. Everyone had very well thought-out things to say about the portrayal of women in the play, the differences between the quarto and the manuscript texts, and the influence of the British folkloric tradition on its ‘historicity’. Mainly, I found it amusing that the aforementioned Hengist lives in a place called ‘Thong Castle’. Good ol’ Heng-y names the castle himself in a fit of superb creativity and unbridled masculinity. BTW, this is what comes up if you google that phrase, which is a real place in England, in the town of Thong.

Chance of rain

I get pie with a little help from my friends

There are some things that you can tell are gross without tasting them. For me, this includes any of those fancy-party pâtés with gelatinous components, MacDonald’s ‘Chicken Mayo’ and those Scotch eggs with the weird crust that are then baked or something. Up until today, this list also included Cornish pasties and English meat pies. I was very wrong indeed.

The pie shop Pieminister was recommended to me by a Real British Person, my friend Hannah who is also doing the Shakespeare MA. It’s pronounced ‘Pie-Minster’ and Alison and I have been joking about it all week. But when we saw a stall from the store tucked amidst the fresh produce, cheese and weird-looking meats at Borough Market, we had no choice. 

The Thai Chook Pie is made with “free-range British chicken, fragrant Thai green curry, sweet potato and lime in a lovely pastry”… I know. These unassuming little guys are so, so delicious. It’s hard to eat, and fairly hefty, so it functioned as two meals in one: cold in the garden of a church near the Thames, and later heated in my grotty dorm kitchen (where the food thievery, janky leaving out of dishes and other housemate crimes have already begun). Honestly, I wanted to think it was disgusting, but it was, as the description says, lovely. I ate my words and then I ate that pie. Hard.

Another great discovery: If you show up at Borough Market around closing-up time (due to thriftiness or hangover, whatever) you can get all the delicious fresh produce for half price. Also, it’s all organic and local. And sold to you by hot farmers. I promise I’m just there to support local/green cooking.  

"What does one wear to a 10 year anniversary party for a  Shakespeare centre?"
"I don't know, a ruff?" 
- Alison Mowat, flatmate extraordinaire. 

A broad, drinking

I got drunk on England and bought a cape. Then I got drunk on alcohol and made friends with my program. Everything at King’s seems to involve large quantities of free wine and “nibbles”, which I am obviously very okay with. However, as the lightweight of the universe I’m still trying to figure out how to booze with my superiors and NOT ramble to them about my childhood love for Anne of Green Gables and the perils of growing up ginger (to be fair, she started it). 

I knew this was a good place when my professor bought us all beer and crisps during an ‘early modern meet-up’. At least I’ll be acquiring pounds in some sense over here. 

gnarly dorm rooms: universal.

My happy place

Now five minutes from my bedroom.

L'undone

So, I am the kind of person who lives abroad now. I am also the kind of person who blogs, I guess. this is a real journey of self-discovery. The main thing I have discovered about myself while living in the UK is that my voice is about 10 x too loud for any given situation. A few friends have called me out on this before, but it has never mattered until I moved outside of North America, and realized that the Loud American stereotype is a real thing. Interestingly, I have chosen to combat this by compulsively mentioning my Canadian background within ear shot of Real British People, I suppose in some kind of attempt to excuse myself. “Well, that’s not so different from the Toronto subway map!” I'll exclaim. “Oh no, it’s raining again, eh? EHHHH?” and so on and so forth. A really smart person would probably just quiet down, instead of loudly confirming their outsider status while trying to ingratiate themselves to their sovereign nation, but here we are. 

And where we are is LONDON.