London. London. London. I’m going to London! That is all that went through my head for weeks after I received my acceptance letter to the London School of Economics and Political Science. For a long-standing Anglophile, cultivated by years of watching British comedies on PBS, crushing on Wills, swooning over Cary Grant, solving and committing murders with Angela Lansbury, and, of course, enjoying the magic of Disney in the forms of Hailey Mills (Pollyanna, The Parent Trap), Mary Poppins, Peter Pan, and Robin Hood, this was a dream come true.
But, the closer the date came for me to get on that plane and fly to England, fears and doubts began to bubble up. What worried me was the chance of a recurrence of what I experienced with culture shock while in the Netherlands. Two and half years had passed since I studied in Utrecht. Surely, by being more aware of culture shock I could reduce its severity, right?
This was my master’s degree. I didn’t want any shock-related issues to affect my studies. I couldn’t ignore the memories of how paralyzing culture shock had been for me, but I didn’t want to start off my year being bogged down by them. Nor did I want London to be ruined or tainted by a past it didn’t write. I tried to focus on making a fresh start. I had no notions of the people I would meet, nor any goals for the flight. I tried to remain excited about going.
The plane arrived at Heathrow early in the morning. Groggily, I made my way to the luggage carousel and through customs. It wasn’t until I was waiting for the Heathrow Express to take me to Paddington Station that it hit me. This was it. I had arrived. I was in London. THE London. Soon to be MY London, I hoped.
Once at Paddington Station, I switched to the Underground. I loved the Underground from previous trips. The map was easy to understand and I never feared getting lost. And if I did, I could console myself with some of my favorite chocolate from the Cadbury vending machines. I needed to take the Bakerloo Line to Oxford Street and then transfer to the Central Line. The Central Line would take me to my stop, Holborn Station. On the map this looked simple enough. It wasn’t.
First, I encountered morning rush hour. This is not the time to be navigating the narrow hallways connecting platforms of the Tube with one large, heavy pull piece of luggage and a book bag protruding from my back. Not only are there more people, but they are all in a hurry, and, therefore, try to jam as many of themselves into a car as possible. I tried not to take up too much precious space, but it was inevitable, and I drew irritated glares.
Then, I came across my first ever stations that didn’t have escalators and elevators. This meant lugging my overstuffed suitcase up and down what felt like hundreds of steps. My hand began to burn. I could only make it five or six steps at a time before I had to stop, readjust my grip, and continue. What the hell did I pack?!
Arriving at Holborn Station, I finally had an escalator, but only after a small flight of stairs. Fortunately, the residence hall I was staying in until I found my own accommodations was just down the road according to the directions I had. 178 High Holborn. By this time, I also had to use the restroom, or, I should say, the loo. A bursting bladder and blistered hand were not how I saw this arrival going.
As I made my way down the road, I used the numbers on the buildings across the street to guide me as I could not read the ones on my side because they were either missing or too high up on the facades for me to easily read. The numbers were going up – 131, 132. I was going the right way. When I reached a really ornate building with a marquee over the sidewalk that read Holborn Hall, I thought I was at my destination and minutes away from relief.
As I approached, however, the building number told me this was 193-197. What?! Somewhere between the 130s and the 190s I had missed it. How was that possible? I didn’t recall seeing anything that indicated a residence hall or even a building owned by the school. I turned around and headed back for another look.
Reaching the Tube station, I had gone too far. I knew the hall was down this road, but for the life of me, I couldn’t find the number. I retraced my steps between the station and Holborn Hall for what seemed an eternity to my hand and bladder. I needed Sherlock Holmes. Clearly not finding the building, I decided to go a bit further down the road.
Bingo. Not two blocks from Holborn Hall was the residence hall. I could actually see it from the spot where I kept turning around. Well, didn’t I feel the fool for getting so close again and again. That’s when I realized that on this street the numbers on the buildings ran in opposite directions. The ones across the road counted up and the ones on my side counted down. I felt a little less foolish then. What a morning.
Perhaps the tone of my arrival was indicative of the next 12 months – struggle after struggle. I sure hoped not. Though, as far as struggles go, these were not even blips. Perhaps it was a reminder to me that annoying stuff will happen, but it’s how I deal with them that counts. I knew from the Netherlands that if I held onto each little negative thing that happened, the accumulation would eventually tear me down. This time I’d listen to the old adage and not sweat the small stuff.
Once inside the long sought-after residence hall, I relinquished myself of my bags, used the loo [insert huge sigh of relief], and walked back out of the building. Once on the sidewalk, I turned left as I didn’t desire seeing the same section of street I had been pacing for the past half hour.
Left was a great choice. It offered new sights and no previous causes of irritation. I decided to take another left, and before too long, found myself in Covent Garden smiling from ear to ear. I wondered if Eliza Doolittle was around. London. London. London. I was in London!