Oh my god I'm in London

Skipping ahead to London.. (New York/Philadelphia entries to come later)

That's what I thought I'd think the moment I landed in Heathrow. But actually, I didn't. It's been three days since my arrival and it still hasn't hit me yet. I guess that's just how it goes. I expected a large, thick curtain to be lifted off my eyes, revealing something extraordinary, magnificent, and different. In reality, it was more like wiping away some spots off my glasses and putting them back on: most of it I'd seen or encountered before, and there were some details in the picture that were a bit blurry.

I took the Underground from Heathrow, and noticed that the London Tube doesn't smell like smoke, or sweat, or even urine, but excessive amounts of different colognes and perfumes, mixed together. I was slightly dizzy coming off the Underground at Angel Station. When I arrived overground at Angel at 6am, it was again the smell of the city that I first noticed. It wasn't like 6am in Beijing where you breathed in and out CO2, or like 6am Tokyo where you can smell the previous night's parties on the streets infused with carbon monoxide, or like 6am Vancouver where you can smell the ongoing rain, or like 6am Florence where you were tempted by whiffs of espresso and freshly baked brioches. I smelled 'Europe' but definitely not its continental counterpart. I smelled newspapers, trees, fresh cologne, and an aire of an inexplicable sophistication wavering through the busy, hurrying crowd. That was my first impression of London.

I spent most of the first day catching up on sleep, and exploring Angel in the early evening with a friend. On the second day, I ventured out to take a look at LSE, happily took a picture of it, forced my way into its famous Library and made use of the internet, took a picture of the spiral staircase (of course!), visited the bookstore and got a Watermark's card, booked a dentist appointment for mid-October, and then walked along the Thames from Aldwych to London Bridge (which is not Tower Bridge), and paid a visit to my residence in Southwark.

On my third day (today), I called up LSE Accommodation to see if I can move in a couple days early. Every night up until 30 September costs me an additional £15 but I thought it would be worth it - I haven't had my own room in so long! The said it wouldn't be a problem. Fantastic. I called my movers and asked them to deliver my boxes the next day. Then, I went and printed off copies of my resume and walked around in grey weather, looking for a job around Southwark. I visited T-mobile later in the day in an attempt to get myself a phone so that I'm more connected to the civilized world, but failed, when they said I have to sort out my bank account first so they can run a credit check on someone who just landed in England for the first time. Of course. By the time I left T-mobile, however, the banks were closed, so the HSBC Bank question and T-mobile question is left for tomorrow afternoon, after I've fit everything in my room at Sidney Webb.

Oh my god I'm in London.
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"Vive la Quebec libre!"

Of all the cities I've ever visited or lived in, Montreal was a city that was most conscious of its own existence. Walking down the streets, whether it be Saint-Laurent, Mont-Royale, or Saint Catharines, the proud vibe resonated vibrantly and consistently. And even though parts of Montreal are considered more Anglophone or Francophone, the dominant language in use - despite it being a Canadian city - was French. Everyone spoke in French and all the signs were in French. If you didn't know the history of Montreal or Quebec or even Canada, you would not know that this was an English-speaking city (which it is).

The language barrier, surprisingly, was intimidating. Surprising, because I feel rarely intimidated by the lack of knowledge of a certain language - I usually end up picking it up within a short period of time. I had previously heard that the French are so notorious for being overtly proud of their language (for good reason?) that they find foreigners' attempts to speak the language to be distasteful. Of course, my friends are different - they'll help me pronounce "Mont-Royale" with the back-throat "R" and compliment me if I'm articulating it close enough. But having been informed of French linguistic pride before, I was scared to even attempt pronouncing anything in French, and boldly stuck with English. This, however, was highly uncomfortable for someone like me who enjoys and also finds importance in conversing in the region's language. Feeling like an alien, I sorely wished that I had French under my belt - and I had scarcely wished so for Spanish in Peru!

While one magazine's claim that "Those who choose not to live in Montreal solely because it is Francophone are pussies" can be violently debatable amongst socio-linguists and cultural theorists, that the city is, for all intents and purposes, French, shouldn't put anyone off to live in it or at least visit. It is unique and vibrant and lively in its proud way and perhaps for this reason, full of character and so much color. For one thing, I enjoyed great coffee and grub, and also a hip music scene that would have been enjoyable if it were not for froshers of McGill bombarding the bars. Like many European cities, some neighborhoods are old old, and others quite new. I can definitely see myself hanging out in Montreal for a tad bit longer - and would have if LSE didn't beckon me.
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