Day 1: Austen, Queues, and the Mystery of Boys

Sleeping...or not

I woke with a start. Staring at the clock (that I may or may not have stolen temporarily from the classroom downstairs) I realized it was three in the morning. Come on, really? I tossed for several uncomfortable minutes, watching the white curtains dance on night air. There some streetlights lit, and a few bikes and boisterous voices heard beyond. Eyes itching, I pulled out the nearest book and started to read. But even Jane Austen couldn't recall the sandman. So, after a hot shower and putting on the same clothes of three days, I spent the early hours curled up under the sitting room window with my book, watching the sky glow brighter and brighter, casting the windows in gold.

Breakfast produced students that seemed naturally tired, not jet-lag haunts like me. Andrew said that jet leg occurs when we don't see daylight in the patterns we're accustomed to--hence prisoners in places like London tower (who have no concenpt of time) revert to sleeping in two or three-hour segments, like I've been doing the last few days. I sat at the end of one table with him and Ben (the two guys on this trip), armed with cereal and yogurt; we remarked on the dog-walkers and a purple-haired lady just outside the kitchen window, feeling overly blameless for our voyeurism. The food has very few ingredients here, consistent with the "Chemical Preservative Outrage" that has yet to land in America. Real sugar, hooray! I intend to buy a Cadbury bar and see how it compares.

First Day of Class

The religion class and Jane Austen were both reviewing what the class would be like, the assignments and discussions. I'm anticipating some sort of fight in the latter about which film version is better, the five-hour or the Kiera Knightley Pride and Prejudice. Everyone in class seemed either wiped out or entirely manic, and the profs were jovial and alert without having to recover. Nothing made me want to sleep more than they did. After a cup of leftover soup, I went to bed until dinnertime while everyone else went to the National Gallery and the Portrait Museum. I don't regret not going, considering my consistently haggard state of wrinkled clothes and blistered feet from the day before. Would my bag arrive today, as the clerk anticipated?

At dinner, Dr. Tate talked about the funeral he had attended that day; a Mrs. Sheppard, former tenant in the BYU Centre who hadn't moved out when BYU bought the flat, had died a few weeks ago. At a loss to locate her family in the wide expanse of Eastern Europe, the directors held the funeral anyway and remarked that she was a private person and would have preferred few people in attendance anyway. Dinner, accordingly, was bread and butter and comfort food from the funeral. It was a less than somber affair, but for the exhaustion that began to set in. Someone came in and announced that a suitcase was sitting in the hall--I sprinted out of the kitchen and hauled the thing upstairs, banging each one and grinning from ear to ear. Hooray, a shower with my own shampoo! One less thing to worry about...

The Saints in London

With the appearance of a bishop and stake assignments, we all felt a bit better about church on Sunday. We were divided into two stakes, and I belong in Hyde Park. The bishop is 28 years old, pretty common in the UK, and has a ward of about 300 members, 70 in attendance. While he talked about safety matters and the quirky things Britons do, we watched his very distracting little girls Ninette (1) and Persephone (0) practicing going up and down stairs. We learned that talking about the weather is a rite of passage into normal conversation because there's not much risk in you saying or agreeing with anything controversial. We learned that Brits do not "mob" or "mosh" or even "line up"--they queue. It's a sign of respect for others' personal space and desire for order that only a city so small and cramped could exasperate. We also learned that "It's huge!", while still an eagerly appreciated compliment in the States, borders on insult in London. There's 63 million people in this city--thus a bigger house makes you a stupider person. If you want to compliment these folks on their material goods properly, ask how old it is. Some of the pubs around here were built in the fourteenth century (I intend to FIND one of them and order sausage), and the people are proud to live within such history. Shame America's a bit young to take much pride in that.

He was also nice enough to convey some notions about church attendance that we had not yet heard, the most important of which is the fact that we, being from Utah, are thought to be the students photographed in For the Strength of Youth. Dead serious. After our incredulity subsided, I began to feel overly well again, like this whole modesty and well-groomed thing would matter much more here than it ever would in Utah. For many of these girls, they've never had to face the indirect consequences (impact on others) of church attendance and behavior; Bishop assured us that these English members believe we hail from Zion and are grade A members of the Church. I hope that everyone is on their best behavior and that there will be an outpour of love and respect for those in our wards.

Study Time

Evening fell, and no one seemed to want to leave the Centre. A few study groups materialized in the servery and dining room. I went to sit with Andrew and Ben and a girl named Liz whom I'd not met yet. Liz is a cute tomboy with a blond ponytail and an affinity for sweatshirts and complimenting others. She seemed frustrated with the first day of humanities and Andrew was offering some notes while inhaling a bar of very British chocolate. I opened up Pride and Prejudice again (to the abuse of the Testosterone Club next to me), determined to underline smart phrases or words according to Dr. Bird's advice. I explained that I really don't understand why we still read Austen in 2010--I mean, the books are cute and the characters endearing, but the plots are so lacking in political atmosphere of the time I wonder is she wasn't sitting in a barn her whole life-- but I wouldn't get to some sort of informed conclusion unless I took a class. Perhaps I will become a philanthropist and, when some postmodern intellectual abuses my friend for reading Persuasion, I can come to her rescue about all the literary merits established in her novels.

The guys eventually left, stretching and yawning to bed early. And for no reason at all, Liz just started talking to me. Our girl talk started with whether, if Mr. Collins had proposed to Jane, she wouldn't have said no and eventually stonewalled at the female's favorite topic: Boys. Without going into much detail, the questions came up: Why is it so sucky sometimes to date in Mormon community? Why are boys so capable of being happy with multiple girls, while girls are typically happy with less than a few guys? Do all boys get over breakups so quickly? What do they really want? What do we really want? And if girls, in all their genius about human relationships, don't know what they want, is there hope for any of us? Andrea joined us and we sat around the cherry-colored table under the chandelier while students slowly trickled upstairs to bed, entirely absorbed in our conversation. Andrea is great at telling stories; I heard more wisdom learned in one go than I could have earned in a year, and she laughed it off like it was really nothing. I don't know if we had any earth-shattering conclusions tonight, but the company of girls with similar experiences made me feel like we were getting somewhere.

Off to bed. Being with so many girls might not be such a drama-fest after all.