JANcich & hanDLEY

School projects posted

For those of you who are interested in my coursework, check out the links to the right under "Sarah's School projects."

Back after the black out!

Pardon our absence from the blogosphere during the last week. Saturday morning we woke to an unpleasant surprise: some yob managed to cut the underground cabling that is our Internet connection. Yikes! It was a long weekend with no Internet access. We were forced to entertain ourselves by (gasp!) reading books! The horror! During our three-day Web blackout, I managed to read all of Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's (don't be too impressed, it's only 100 pages) and Annie Proulx's The Shipping News. Both recommended.

I have a few stories to share since my last post.

I had lunch at "Mexican" restaurant.
My friend Ed, a Briton through and through, has never eaten Mexican food. Considering we have a Mexican restaurant on nearly every street corner in the States, I jumped at the chance to spread "culture" (admittedly, not my own) abroad. After a little research, I found a Mexican restaurant, "Chiquitos," just a bit away from UCL and made plans to drag Ed there at my first opportunity.

That opportunity came last week. Once settled at a table, I immediately sensed something was wrong. There wasn't a single cocktail with tequila in it on the bar menu! No margaritas, no tequila sunrises, no mojitos! The trouble continued when I looked at the menu, which listed hamburgers, BBQ chicken with corn on the cob and a cesear salad(!). Furthermore, no friendly member of the wait staff presented us with the requisite basket of tortilla chips and salsa. I settled for some sort of wrap that came with french fries while Ed ordered the BBQ chicken.  Que disappointing! So...now I'm on the lookout for an *actual* Mexican restaurant to which I can take Ed so he can see what the term "enchilada" means. Stay tuned.

I was mistaken for a teenager.
Having tired of my books by Saturday evening, I decided to drink away my boredom. We live within a block of a tiny grocery store that's quite handy when we need to pick up a bottle of wine or a four-pack (of beer, that is. Sadly, the "sixer" doesn't seem to exist here). So, I wandered over for a bottle of Cabernet for the 10,000th time since we moved into our flat. When I put the bottle on the counter to pay with an assortment of other items, the cashier gave me a funny look and asked me how old I was. I was so shocked that I just stared at him. "What?!" I asked. Again, he asked me how old I was. I told him I was 27. He asked me if I was sure. I said I was pretty sure. He asked if I had any proof of my age with me. I didn't, since I don't carry a driver's license anymore.  The good news: I look younger than my age! The bad news: I apparently don't look old enough to be of legal drinking age, which is 18.  Maybe it's time to start wearing make-up again.

I handed in the last of my coursework.
I *officially* finished all of the assignments for my eight classes. Yay! I just have to take a final exam, complete an internship and write a dissertation. I'll have my master's before I know it!

We're going to Edinburgh
We're going to ring in Kyle's big 2-8 in Scotland in late June, after he is finished with his exams. Interestingly, the flight to Scotland is less expensive than our train fare from our flat to the London airport.

It's finally spring!
The weather has warmed up here, the flowers are in bloom, the tourists are streaming into the city and the Queen celebrated her birthday (her real one -- not her official one, which is in June). And I couldn't be happier.

New photos!

I *finally* posted pictures from Tim and Leslie's visit to London, only to discover that I have no actual photos of Tim or Leslie! How did that happen?

The new photos are from our outings to Windsor Castle and the Tower of London. We did a lot more sightseeing but didn't have the camera handy all of the time.

We REALLY enjoyed seeing them and had a blast showing them around our beloved city. Come back soon!

Who's he, then?

Yesterday I was doing some work in our housing complex's computer lab. The lab is a shabby, tightly packed and stuffy room in the building that houses all of the undergrads in traditional dorm-style rooms. I don't like to work in there because of the above reasons and because the computers are so old that their next stop might be as an exhibit at Tommy Barlett's Robot World. (For the non-Wisconsinites, Robot World is a helplessly out-of-date "museum" that houses "futuristic" artifacts. Trouble is, the artifacts are the 1960s idea of what life might be like in the 2000s, and it hasn't been updated in ages. Think The Jetsons meets Lost in Space.)

However, Kyle and I both have plenty of schoolwork to keep us busy, and since I generally monopolize our Internet-connected laptop, it was my turn to go to the lab. I hoped that since it's Easter break and school isn't in session, the room wouldn't be crowded. While I got my wish, the few people in the room were total crazies.

First, there was a guy working on a computer while listening to his iPod, which I normally don't mind. I did mind, however, when he started singing along to 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough,'  which is a crappy song to begin with, and even worse in his crackly, a capella version.

Most bizarrely, a woman came in with a bunch of shopping bags to talk to some guy who was working on a computer. Even though I could tell he wasn't very interested, she kept pulling her purchases out of their bags to show him what she'd bought. Turns out, she'd bought herself some new clothes, and she insisted on having a little fashion show for him right there in the lab. What do you think of this sweater? she asked. Does it look OK? Is the color of this coat good on me? The guy tried to act as interested as possible, but he clearly didn't care at all. Finally, the woman looked at her watch and said, "Better go, my husband is going to wonder where I am!"

The curse of not-alarming alarms

Just after 7 a.m., we woke up to a loud, horrible ringing alarm coming from somewhere in our neighborhood and, luckily, not from inside our building. Unfortunately, it was the worst kind of alarm: something other than a fire bell.

As I've mentioned before, Londoners take fire safety very, very seriously. We have at least a dozen fire safety-related notices posted on the walls of our approximately 700-sq. ft. flat alone, with many more in the hallways and near the front door of the building. We've had at least 10 "fire checks" in our flat from the building warden since September. In fact, the only reason we get a visit from the warden or a maintenance person has something to do with fire safety. And trust me -- our flat could use some serious non-fire-safety related maintenance, but I fear those sorts of things will never be a priority unless they become flammable.

When fire alarms go off in our housing complex (which they apparently have more than 50 times since the fall, according to a tersely worded--yet surprisingly polite--memo that was slipped under our door this morning by the warden) the fire brigade comes charging in within minutes in full fire-fighting gear and sirens blazing. Of course, there has never been an *actual* fire. The alarms go off so often because our fire alarms are extremely sensitive and detect the slightest amount of smoke and heat; cooking with the kitchen door open can, and will, set them off.

When this morning's alarm was still ringing after 10 minutes with no appearance from the fire brigade, I prepared myself for the worst, knowing we could be listening to that alarm for hours. I got an extra pillow and shoved it over my head, hoping to drown out the ear-piercing ringing. Kyle, lucky guy, managed to sleep right through it.

I knew it could be awhile because we'd survived a similar situation back in the fall. We were visiting our friends Gabriele and Martina in their flat in Kentish Town. Around 9 p.m., an alarm sounded across the street at a Renault dealership. It rang and rang and rang and rang. The fire brigade never showed up, so we assumed it was a burglar alarm.

When it began to drive us crazy, Kyle called 999 (the counterpart to 911) and mentioned that a "fire" alarm was going off across the street. We knew it wasn't on fire, but we also knew that no one would come to shut it off if we mentioned that.  Within minutes, two fire strucks showed up to investigate. Upon finding no fire, they shouted up to Kyle, who was standing in the window, that he'd have to call 999 again and report it to police. The fireman's tone indicated that we'd be listening to that alarm for quite awhile because the police were unlikely to consider it a priority. He also offered to call the police, too, in hopes that two calls might increase the priority.

Kyle did call 999 again. The dispatcher said she'd notify the police but that they'd be too busy to investigate anytime soon. Kyle said that was OK, he'd just go over to the dealership with a hammer, break in and shut the alarm off himself. He was kidding, of course, but the dispatcher didn't see the humor. "Oh no, don't do that!" she warned.

When we left Gabriele and Martina after midnight, the alarm was still ringing. Gabriele told us later that it finally went off around dinner time the next evening...nearly 24 hours later!

So, this morning, I was mentally preparing myself for a day's worth of ear-piercing torture. Just when I was pondering how much a hotel room might cost, the alarm magically stopped after only 30 minutes of ringing! A true miracle.

Coming soon: Details of our visit with Tim and Leslie, plus pictures of Windsor Castle and the Tower of London.

Well...f you, too!

I love this story from CNN.com:

London parade officials: Stay away from Fort Myers
http://www.cnn.com/2006/TRAVEL/04/02/tourism.dispute.ap/index.html

Tim and Leslie are visiting us in London, and we've been running them ragged by showing them all of our favorite spots in London. So far, they've hit the British Library, Natural History Museum, UCL, LSE, Trafalgar Square, National Portrait Gallery, Hampstead Heath and my favorite pub. Tuesday, we're headed out to Windsor Castle to see the Queen's digs.