The peek into the past district
- Madison McGrew
- Dec 16, 2020
- 8 min read
This morning as I walked my cup of coffee to the patio couch, I was greeted by a light mist descending from grey and periwinkle specked clouds. I peered beyond the pool screen to see a patch of barren and colour-changing trees enveloped the same way. Crows cawed overhead.
I could have swore I stepped into an Emily Bronte novel. Alas, it was just Florida trying to be London.
I was apprehensive to finish a blog post that I started some four years ago. I was in a different state—sovereign and mental—than I am now. But this morning's other-worldly greeting primed me for memories of my time in the United Kingdom. Most specifically, memories of misty morning hikes with adventure-seeking friends.
Suddenly, I longed to be back.
I sat down, unfurled my laptop, and peered into the "Blog" folder that had been metaphorically collecting dust on my desktop.
Blog 1 - FOMP
Blog 2 - You're Fired
Blog 3 ...
Really? I only wrote two blogs in my almost twenty months of living in the UK? Am I actually shocked?
I clicked on Blog 3. Incomplete thoughts broken up like paragraphs.
Scanning through I realise this was my initial attempt at recapping my first term as a resident, Fulbrighter, and Master's student in London. I think I promised this recap to readers back in Blog 1? Blog 2?
("to readers"...lol)
I continue. My scan turns into a study. And my study turns into something like Albus Dumbledore peering over his Pensieve.
It would be easy to wonder why I never finished it; it was such a simple retelling of events. But it would also be easy to assume I never finished it because I'm perfectionistic as FUHHHH.
In hindsight (#2020), I'm glad I never finished it. I needed to revisit these memories today.
Ah, the memories of immigrating with my mother:
My mom and I flew into JFK and missed our connecting flight to Edinburgh. An unforeseen 24-hour layover encouraged us explore the bits of NYC we (surprisingly) hadn't yet explored.
We walked down Madison Ave. (Duh.) We putzed around The Metropolitan Museum of Art. We casually spotted Anna Wintour signing books in the Asia wing. We laughed over a goblet of frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity III.
We returned to the airport.
We crossed the pond.
We disembarked a Boeing onto cramped legs, plopped our bags off at The Inn On the Mile, and hobbled to Holyrood Palace.
*deep inhale*
My good God, I love Scotland.
This was my second time staying in Edinburgh. (And, spoiler, certainly not my last.)
After touring the palace on land, we toured the royal quarter at seas—the Royal Yacht Britannia. We sipped tea on the sun deck, passed by the poop deck, and became unreservedly pooped by the fifth deck.
The next day was a Caledonophile’s dream. Fine, it was just an Outlander fan's wet dream.
We set off on a private tour to survey the same Historic earth that Sam Heughan and his hunky ass once traversed.
Doune Castle, Linlithgow Palace, Blackness Castle, Midhope Castle (Lallybroch). A ceilidh in Culross to cap the day.
I laced up my ghillies for the first time in four years and pas de basques-ed into the sunset.
One sleep later, we were at Edinburgh Castle. And then we were perched at a window seat in a First Class car on a Virgin train to London.
We checked into a pub-hotel-hybrid across from Waterloo Station.
I swear they served McDonald's hash browns for breakfast. Probably from Waterloo Station.
We spent another day marinating in royalty as we followed around a fancy woman in literal fancy pants and her daughter (who looked like she had been plucked from the cover of Teen Vogue magazine).
We started at Horse Guards Parade. We ambled through St James’s Park to The Mall where we witnessed the trumpet-led fanfare that initiated the Changing of the Guards. Then, we crowded into Buckingham Palace to see what laid behind the less-inviting side-door that receives the public for only one month out of every year.
(What I wouldn't give to be in an obnoxious crowd right now. Please, smack your gum in my ear. PLEASE, cut me off on my b-line to the loo.)
Our tour finished with High Tea at the St. Ermin’s hotel. Though free of gluten and animal products, my portion was surely full of sugar and swank.
At some point, my mother introduced me to the 12-billion-floor wonder that is Harrods. You think the all-year-long Christmas shops at Disney World are wild? Pfffffft.
Oh, hello, memories of Fulbright Orientation week:
My first interactions with Fulbrighters that week went something like, “I really don’t know how I got here.”
My last interactions with Fulbrighters that week went something like, “I LOVE Y’ALL, FAM.”
All of my interactions with Fulbrighters that week went with free alcohol.
After a day orienting at Goodenough College, my new friend, Candace, and I scoped out a secret garden cocktail party at the South Place Hotel. We planted ourselves on a cushy couch for the evening and swayed to Henry Taylour’s smoky acoustics.
(Wow, it's been forever since I've thought about that night, but only two seconds since I've thought about Candace. Fulbright friends are forever, folx.)
The next morning, Candace, Riley and I took in the Victoria & Albert museum. It was there that I decided on a favourite ‘room in a museum’, a favourite ‘museum gift shop’ and a favourite ‘place to eat in a museum’.
(I would later go back to my favourite museum gift shop to purchase dish-ware for my kitchenette (i.e. a microwave sitting atop a mini fridge). I would also later be challenged on the utility of having or inquiring about favourites at all. Apparently, favourite things are arbitrary and do not get to the heart of a human.)
We scampered off to Two Temple Place to meet Assistant Press Secretary for the Queen’s Jubilee, Zaki Cooper, and US Ambassador to the UK, Matthew Barzun; but most notably, to see where Lord Dashwood conducted office dealings during his candidacy for Prime Minister.
(Please, someone, get that.)
A jog up to the British Library with an interlude of scrumptious polenta cake and delicious company before a wine reception (aka more free alcohol).
I became acquainted with Eva Woloshyn, Director of Corporate Affairs for Trinity Laban. I also became grossly sweaty with the pangs of imposter syndrome.
Situated in a seat at the Eccles Centre for American Studies, I listened to Sir Nigel Sheinwald and Gabrielle Riffkind discourse the frank complexities in negotiating war. Where on the spectrum of pointed politics and human psychology does conflict resolution lie?
Scottish dancing and sun lamps were the topics that filled chatter with former Fulbrighters and gratified yet another night huddled around drinks.
Westminster and Houses of Parliament. Hey, Ben, you're looking stately, as always. *wink*
Lord Victor Adebowale, a hilarious and approachable cross bench member of the House of Lords, seemed genuinely enthused that I was pursing Dance Science—words which, by the way, roll off the tongue of a Brit more smoothly than that of an American.
Bring on the memz of grad school:
I started my Master’s of Science in Dance Science at Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance.
Wait, that was it. That's all I wrote. Lol.
Bring on more memz of food and old stuff!
Topless Baker recommended I wait in a serpentine line for a Monmouth Coffee in Borough Market. Good rec, Matt.
(Azhalia, remember when we were obsessed with Topless Baker? Back in Tastemade's formative days on Snapchat, Azhalia was obsessed with Topless Baker while I was more-so hooked on the hilarious mind behind Raw. Vegan. Not Gross.... Laura Miller, where you at? Oh, by the way, Topless Baker is no longer topless. Apparently, being topless in the company of top chefs was getting uncomfy.)
I passed The Crown Jewels on a conveyor belt at the Tower of London.
(I later passed plates to investment bankers as they sat under a tent across from The Crown Jewels at the Tower of London. The glamorous life of a cater waiter.)
I watched the West End production of Les Miserables. (OH MY GOSH.)
I watched the West End production of The Lion King.
I auditioned for the West End production of The Lion King.
I got cut from the audition for the West End production of The Lion King.
But listen, I’ve never been so overjoyed to be rejected in my life. As one of my classmates observed later in lab that day, no one could burst my little pink bubble!
(Simona, I love you.)
On October 15th, I officially became a local.
(I have no idea what that means. Perhaps that was the day the nice lady behind the Ruby's Bakery stand in Greenwich Market remembered I liked donuts.... Or maybe it was the day the stoic Italian man at Costa Coffee remembered my latte order....)
Clearly, only food experiences mattered to me.
Now back to the aforementioned memz of misty morning hikes.
I think I wrote this, but it looks like I just copied-and-pasted it from Wikipedia:
The Peak District is England’s first national park. It spans 555 square miles between Sheffield and Manchester and is about a three-hour drive/train-ride from London. Edale, the region in the Peaks where I stayed, is home to the highest “peak” of the Peaks—Kinder Scout, an actual plateau that rises to a modest 636 metres above sea level. This is the official start of the Pennine Way—a walking trail that stretches 268 miles north to the Scottish border.
Regardless of where I sourced those fun facts, the memories of me taking a yolo solo trip to the Peak District, staying at an ALL GLUTEN FREE bed & breakfast, and traipsing around moorish terrain with no map or guide will be some of my most cherished.
(And I shall never forget the human who inspired me to do such a thing. Thank you, Caitlin Snelson.)
My life in London wasn't all picturesque. Most nights were spent alone in my dorm cubicle, eating cheddar Bugles from the corner store and binging episodes of Gilmore Girls.
I really didn't do well with the cold.
And the dark.
And the rain.
And did I mention the cold?
But apparently one episode of Gilmore Girls tickled me enough to write it down.
“London as a city is very Christmas obsessed!” –Rory, Season 7, Episode 11
Rory, you're not wrong. I guess it depends on how you view the commercialisation of Christmas; but for me, I found levity from the the cold and the rain and the dark and the cold in the moments I was confronted with the gates of Winter Wonderland or the lights on Oxford and Regent Streets.
I also found moments of levity when I was confronted with my friends' faces.
My FAVOURITE part of living in London was the people I met.
I'm not sure if me and Gwen were best friends when I attempted this recap, but boy, were we getting there. To make a long story short, we were classmates, and then we were best friends, and then we were roommates, and then, perhaps unbeknownst to many, she made it onto all of the Fulbright contact rosters because we became one. She was me. Well, the better half of me. She was my alarm clock, my motivation, and a lot of times, my common sense. She knew how much I struggled in London (#burnout), but I romanticise my experience anyway.
This brings me to 2020. Although we all can't wait for this shit-show to be over, I have a feeling the shit won't slow its roll in the new year. The universe will continue to tend toward chaos. And I will continue to romanticise all the years before when I thought nothing could get worse, but they, in fact, could.
Given this year's hardships and absolute non-holiday vibes, I think we all deserve a get-away down Memory Lane. True, memories are fickle and not inherently good, but in observing the memories that undoubtedly shaped us, we may find ourselves at Gratitude's Greatest Highway.
And THAT folx, is the cheesiest thing I've said in a while.
Happy reminiscing,
M
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