How to cure feelings of joblessness and homelessness: Go to the Olympics

Lately, I have been haunted by two very scary words:

THE FUTURE.

Like many of my graduate school friends living in my flat in London, I’ve worried about where my life will take me in the next few years, and I’ve looked for ways to escape my fear that I will end up begging for change outside of a Dunkin’ Donuts back in Boston, with my old classmates, professors and students taking pity on me with gifts of spare change and duct tape for my cardboard-box home.

I’m proud to say that the Olympics has proven a great remedy for healing my worries for the future. After all, for Olympians in London 2012, their lives are all about the present. Their past years of training no longer matter, and the time after the games doesn’t matter. What matters is the short time they have to prove themselves in front of their countrymen and the world. No pressure or anything.

After soaking up the excitement of the Opening Ceremony in a pub near Hyde Park last week, I had the opportunity to attend two Olympic beach volleyball matches today, where I forgot about the future and focused on the ripped athletes in front of me. I marveled at the fast-paced action on the volleyball court, where I saw Poland’s first pair of male Olympic volleyball players beat out Switzerland.  I laughed as a team of dancers who looked like they belonged on Jersey Shore danced around on the sand during breaks between sets. I cheered as the announcer welcomed “the guardians of the sand” (the volunteers who raked the sand) onto the court for a session fondly referred to as “rakey-rakey time.”   

All of these little experiences added up to an amazing day. Just as those athletes I saw today don’t know who is going home with gold, I don’t know where my future will take me once I return home, but that’s OK. 

I’m lucky to be in the present, to be experiencing the Olympics with my good friends. The future will take care of itself, and, if it doesn’t, I’ll join the group of Jersey Shore dancers, so don’t judge me.  

Lessons learned in Portugal: Bring a Korean and a screaming baby

After a fairly rainy summer in London (shocker), I decided to take a quick trip to Portugal because flights to Greece were too expensive and my skin was becoming as pale as a Twilight character’s. I was pleasantly surprised by the low-key beauty of Portugal. The turquoise-blue water and winding city streets of Lisbon kept my friends and I entertained, and people on the streets were constantly promoting their restaurants, begging us to come try their seafood. I’ve never felt so popular, or so full.

I learned two things on my travels:

      I should always travel with a Korean.

I’ve always loved meeting eccentric people when I travel, and my Korean friend Eugene made this really easy to do. Eugene was a hit in Portugal. Every day on the street, people asked where she was from (Stranger: “Are you from China?” Eugene: “No!”). One of these people was Carlos, a local in the tiny town of Faro, Portugal, who was trying to promote his restaurant to tourists.

Carlos taught us valuable life lessons:

·         “When you are traveling, do not plan your day around food.”

o   Too late. Our life in Portugal revolved around eating.

·         “If you do not like a woman’s personality, you will not like her boobs or ass.”

o   Carlos has obviously never met Kanye West.

Although Carlos is fun to make fun of, he had some valuable advice to share, too. His philosophy involved living life to the fullest and not being afraid to meet people. In all seriousness, these are important lessons that everyone should follow.

I should always bring a screaming baby with me to the airport.

It was midnight, 50 degrees and rainy when my friends and I returned to London. As we waited in line to get through customs, a man pushed through the queue with his wife and screaming baby. The man was smiling as the baby screamed, and I soon found out why. He was using the baby to get through the line faster.

“Sorry, the baby’s crying. We need to get through. See, she’s crying.” He was Jesus and the crowd was the Red Sea. They magically parted.

While we waited in line for at least 20 minutes, that family got through the line in about 5.

If anyone would like to rent their fussy child to me the next time I travel, please let me know. I have 10 years of babysitting experience, and, thanks to the faithful tutoring of Eugene, I can teach your child how to say “Hello,” “fat,” and “How are you?” in Korean.

Why I should give horses a second chance

When I was 10, I went on a Girl Scout horseback riding trip from hell. While all the other girls rode horses straight out of My Little Pony, I got stuck on an evil looking mule that I didn’t know how to ride. A dog ran in front of the mule, and he reared back, leaving me flailing around on my saddle with my neck snapping and my butt bumping back and forth.

The next day, I walked into my fifth grade class with the speed and stature of an 80-year-old retiree.  After that experience, I had no desire to ride horses again.

That all changed last weekend, when I slipped on a pretentious blue dress, some Kate Middleton nude heels and a cheesy hat for a trip to Royal Ascot. As I stepped to the outside of the track and saw the horses fly past, I knew that I needed to rethink my decision to shun horses and horseback riding.

There’s an indescribable adrenaline rush that comes with seeing how smoothly those horses move and how seamlessly their jockeys control them. Even when I was not placing my high-rolling £2 bet, I found the excitement of the track contagious (with or without alcohol in my system).

When the last race came to an end, my friends and I said goodbye to the security guards we met by the track (who were all the more valuable because they taught us how to imitate the laugh of a rich old British man) and found our way back to the gates of Ascot, weaving through a sea of hats, fascinators and top hats as drunken racing fans sang “God Save the Queen.”

The race may have been a world away from Florida’s swampy woods, but some things about my Ascot experience were eerily similar to my Girl Scout experience. Despite its posh appearance, Royal Ascot still had mud and grime. Some young women did walk like 80-year-olds because platform heels don’t do very well on grass. And, just as I was jealous of my fellow Girl Scouts with their My Little Ponies, some of the women were surely jealous of the hats, fascinators and slightly more toned body parts of their friends.

The difference between my 10-year-old self and my 23-year-old self is that, the next chance I get, I will try horseback riding again. I will not shy away from it just because of my one bad experience. If I get an adrenaline rush just from watching the pros, I can’t even imagine what it feels like to ride a horse that well.

If I try and fail miserably again, I won’t mind. I’ll go back to the tracks not as a horse enthusiast but as a compulsive gambler, and that’s a Girl Scout’s promise.

A redneck reimagining of the Queen's birthday celebrations

This weekend, I was once again impressed by the pageantry and tradition of the British. Trooping the Colour, which occurred Saturday, was a chance for the Queen to officially celebrate her birthday and inspect her royal troops.

As I stood along the road to Buckingham Palace for hours waiting for a glimpse of the Queen, Saturday was also an opportunity for me to imagine how the Queen’s birthday would be different if she celebrated it in Florida. Every time I look back upon this moment, my beautiful daydream becomes more and more elaborate…

There she was, the Queen, riding to the Horse Guards Parade, where she inspects the troops, not in a carriage but on a four wheeler, with trusty security guards wearing camo by her side. Her corgis rode in a basket on the front of the four wheeler, wearing football jerseys.

Her troops were not riding horses. They were wrestling alligators, and rednecks from all the swamps in the land gathered on the side of the road, chugging Bud Lights and singing “God Bless Amuurica.”  

Will and Harry, the All-American heroes, left their carriage and their chances of mingling with the troops behind. Instead, they were riding down the road in Harleys, steering with one hand and tossing a football with the other. When their motorcycles broke down, Tim Tebow magically appeared and pulled them down the road instead, stiff-arming anyone who tried to get in his way.

Kate Middleton dressed like a sorority girl at a football game, with a flowing dress and a chunky beaded necklace to match. Her hair, as always, was perfect.

Instead of expecting the troops, the Queen watched as they performed an impromptu step show, accompanied by live rap music and beat boxing.

The day did not end with a flyover. It ended with illegal fireworks reflected in the murky waters of my neighborhood swamp and the distant sound of sirens as the police came to break up the party and throw everyone in jail…

This dream, like all good dreams, came to an end. I love poking fun at Florida because it’s where I grew up. Sure, the U.K. has more pomp and circumstance, but does it have alligators? Swamps? Tim Tebow?

The beauty of tradition is that it’s most meaningful to the people who have grown up with it. Trooping the Colour was probably much more significant for the British woman standing next to me that day, who had brought her great-grandson to watch a tradition that her brother and nephew had participated in as royal guards.

I may not understand all of the symbolism behind the festivities that I watched on Saturday, but I do know one thing:

If the Queen ever rides a four wheeler, I’ll definitely wait in line again to see that. 

How to uncover the hidden magic of Oxford

Like many American tourists, I visited the first university in the English-speaking world not because of its history or its tradition of academic excellence but because of its connection to a dorky and awkward teenager with a scar on his forehead.

That’s right. I waited in line at the University of Oxford to glimpse sites from the Harry Potter movies. I posed in the Hogwarts Great Hall and snapped photos of the spot where Professor McGonagall greeted first-year students in “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” I dressed in wizard robes and ran around the streets shouting “Expecto patronum!”

Just kidding. I only do that in London.

As you can imagine, mingling with dozens of Harry Potter fans from around the world (let’s call them Potheads for short) was annoying and exhausting. While walking through the Great Hall, a dining hall at Oxford, I felt like a cafeteria tray that a student had shoved onto one of those conveyor belts that takes the trays away for cleaning. An attendant herded me through the hall, encouraging me to keep moving so everyone else could have time to take their photos. Meanwhile, Potheads were bumping into me from all sides, and, on my way out of the hall, a fight almost broke out between an angry American mother and a teenage Italian girl on the stairs.

I was relieved to escape to the quiet of the Cathedral, which has served as Oxford’s Anglican cathedral since the reign of Henry VIII.  It was here, in a conversation with a helpful historian, that I uncovered the true magic of Oxford. Believe it or not, there’s more to this university town than its Harry Potter movie sets.

The historian approached me as I was looking at a memorial for what I think must have been the world’s first emo couple. The stone carving showed a man and a woman sitting at a table with a lovely skull centerpiece, looking pretty miserable.

“She was a gambler, that one,” the attendant said.

He launched into a story about how the husband had died and left his wife all his money, only for her to gamble it all away. She ended up winning it all back, probably just in time to fund the lovely memorial. The historian told me more scandalous stories about the adultery and mistresses of other people memorialized in the Cathedral’s sacred space, and I began to realize why I found Oxford so charming.

It wasn’t Harry Potter or the Potheads who leant Oxford its appeal. Rather, it was the people—its current and former residents and its melting pot of visitors—who made it appealing. Their stories shone through the ancient stone of the Cathedral and whispered in the rows of books that have been preserved in the Bodleian Library for hundreds of years.

Oxford is magical because of these stories, which do not always have happy endings but are all the more powerful because their characters, like the memorial’s couple, have flaws. It’s magical for its perpetual youth, exemplified by the students in graduation gowns who I saw milling around the town all day. And it’s magical for its simple British charm, encapsulated by the man in the plaid coat smoking a cigar who passed by the window while I was eating at the pub.

For these reasons, this hidden magic, I would return to Oxford in a heartbeat, even if I have to take the bus instead of apparating there.

Why only the UK can pull off a Diamond Jubilee

As I approached the Thames today to watch the royal flotilla carrying Queen Elizabeth and the royal family, I was startled by a beautiful sound coming from one of the boats lined up to watch the festivities. It was a song that reminded me of the dances of my childhood, of time spent listening to the radio as I rode home with my friends from soccer practice on warm spring evenings.

It was a song written by a nobleman for noblemen. The name of this nostalgic number:

“Baby Got Back (I Like Big Butts)” by Sir Mix-a-Lot.

It was the last song I would have expected to hear on a boat filled with Brits awaiting the arrival of their Queen. But, I cannot lie, and you other brothers can’t deny, this song shows that Britain’s still got talent.

What other nation can successfully blend a day of binge drinking and Sir Mix-a-Lot with dressed up royals and heartfelt renditions of “God Save the Queen” by a drenched choir? In America, we cannot even remember our own national anthem, let alone sing it in the pouring rain.

The Diamond Jubilee was memorable because it showed the respect that the people of the United Kingdom have for their queen, but it also showed something more. It reminded me that this nation built on tradition and pageantry remembers its past yet looks forward to its future. That future was embodied by the young men in dress uniforms and the woman in the red dress who stood next to their grandmother today.

It was also represented by the crowds of countless admirers who paid their respects to a woman who has devoted 60 years of her life to her country. When Sir Mix-a-Lot faded away and was replaced by the sounds of countless cheering fans, I caught a glimpse of the lady in the white hat and the white gloves, and I understood why people were celebrating.

Unlike Sir Mix-a-Lot, the Queen is not defined by one hit single. She’s got 60 years of great hits, and she’s here to stay.

Why Every Straight Girl Should go to a Gay Bar

I used to hate when straight guys complained that they could never get a drink at the bar. Sure, they cannot take advantage of ladies’ nights, and unbuttoning the top buttons of their shirts never seems to make the bartenders jump to attention, but can’t they suck it up? Do they have to shave their legs? Pluck their eyebrows? Carry babies for nine months?

Until last night, I felt that I deserved my free drinks. The complaints I’ve heard from my male friends seemed senseless and unwarranted. Then, I went to a mostly male gay bar in London, and my outlook on life changed. I walked in with my sparkly top and my cheap perfume, ready for a good drink and a good time. As soon as I entered the candlelit pub with its wooden vaulted ceilings and outdoor terrace, a guy said I smelled good. I looked at the shirtless bartenders, and they resembled Abercrombie & Fitch models. One of them could have been a younger Brad Pitt. Things were looking up.

 My friends and I wandered over to the bar to order our drinks, but my girl friends and I were surprised. We tried everything. Pushing our boobs onto the bar counter. Waving our dollar bills. Flashing our white American smiles. None of it worked. For the first time in our lives, we were no longer doted upon by the guys behind the counter. We became the ones who complained about slow service, and we understood what it felt like to not be the center of attention. We were not the Angelina Jolie to the bartender Brad Pitt because he preferred the guy next to us in skinny jeans and a tank top.

 And yet, for me, that was OK. I had an amazing time. I danced to techno music. I experienced a club and a culture that I had never experienced before. The bartenders may not have been super attentive, but I had more guys hold the door open for me last night than ever before, and I experienced no surprise attacks from the grinders who circulate at the other bars I've been to, convinced that their decision to dance up on you without asking is the greatest gift a woman could possibly receive.

 Next time straight guys complain about being invisible at the bar, I’ll understand. I’ll comfort them and tell them that being unnoticed should not ruin their good time.

In between sips of my free drink, I'll smile and promise them a trip to the gay bar, where they can finally have their time in the spotlight, and where I can have another night of fun.