DISCLAIMER: READ EVERY POST FOR THE NEXT MONTH WITH A BRITISH ACCENT

I was not given fair warning before I boarded my flight. No one from the Study Abroad office told me; not even anyone working at the British Embassy let me know.

Everyone here has a British accent.

Just like in the movies. And because of this, I keep thinking that I am seeing famous people; but neither the homeless man on the street, the thiry something year olds working at Boots pharmacy, nor the homicidal bus drivers are famous. Everything is authentic. This is actually London.

I stepped off the plane, which fed me cheesy tortellini, offered free wine, individual bottles of olive oil, with chocolates and chocolate cake, (a conspiracy probably devised by my father so I gain unseemly weight and fend off male suitors), and walked into a clean airport. The airport was peppered with arbitrary metal and steel structures protruding from the ground and ceiling, providing an inconvenient (especially for those with large suitcases trying to fit through two random steel obstructions) glimpse into the future.

After heading to the other terminal to be picked up, we (I met one of my classmates on the flight to Newark) stepped outside for some fresh air. My body clock was running at 3 in the morning, and yet the sun was out in London, people were smoking, and a small grey pigeon was busy eating a cucumber sandwich off the street. For some strange reason, that mangled cucumber sandwich reminded me of home, and my stomach suddenly lurched forward with a sophomoric feeling of homesickness. (Later in the day I had steamed cucumbers with my dinner, which again made me miss home, but only because the veggies at my house are usually edible, let alone tasty.)

We waited in the airport for a few hours, and one by one I watched the other students trudge through the terminal, and to our meeting spot, all with heavy bags, both in their hands and under their eyes.

We decided to take the Tube back to Heythrop College. All I can remember from this trip is stairs. Lots of stairs. (and blood, sweat, and tears. jolly good.)

The college is in a beautiful area. It is kind of like the Upper West Side meets Soho meets Greenwich Village meets a stampede of people with British accents (because, again, everyone here has one. even the American people!!) It is very safe. It is very rich (hint: car brands). And there are a lot of phone stores around.

So I ran around in the heat and with my inferior American face (I am trying to think like an English woman so that I look more like one) running from one phone store to the next. The whole chase started with one Indian guy who kind of screwed me over with a SIM card. Long story not worth telling on the blog. But I essentially went to each phone store twice before finding a good deal and a --keyword--FUNCTIONAL deal. (Of course, the SIM is still not activated and I am still without contact with my family. Oh well, I guess I can't get trouble for texting too much.) Oh and I stayed true to my Indian and Jersey roots (and honestly, thought of my dad when I did this) and made sure I got a refund from the Indian guy. He didn't even have a cool accent--why should I surrender to his worthless, expatriate rule?

Dinner was glorious. And by glorious I mean, I am so happy I brought craisins to London. Still, I cannot completely agree with the "Cold food, Cold people" label of London. Yes, I had an ice-cold samosa today, and a luke warm frittata for dinner last night; but I got a garlic tofu stir fry on the way to the 12th (120th) phone store and it was so incredibly hot I almost dropped it on a black poodle.

And more importantly, the people are incredibly nice. Maybe it's because they sympathize with me--I clearly looked lost (and I looked corpse-like because I couldn't find my eyeliner)---but either way, everyone in the phone stores has been eager to get me on my way (for the third time in most cases).

No one here is that good looking, per se, but I am still weirdly attracted to every single bumbling bloke (and girl) that walks across the cobblestone streets (okay they are actually black and concrete like the ones in New York, but sometimes I like to pretend). Maybe it is because they all look like they have something interesting to say, something interesting to contribute to (my) life. Or maybe it is because I know that whatever they do say will sound interesting.

Oh, and I heard the Resident Director (Hostel Manager) tell someone that when they are in London again, they should "get together for a cup of tea."

Seriously.