I’m less than a month into the London Internship Program and I’m halfway done with my first two classes. That is one interesting thing about BU classes in London: they each meet only nine times. However, each of these meetings lasts four hours.

I know some people who have classes that are filled with field trips, meaning that they do not spend four hours trapped in a classroom. I am not so lucky. I have two classes in this first part of the semester, and they both stay in the classroom everyday. It can be a struggle.

The two classes fall into two categories: “Core” and “Elective A”. The Core class is predetermined by what track you are on for the program. If, like me, you are on the politics track, you take British Political Institutions. Elective A is exactly what it sounds like; it is a course that you choose regardless of your internship track. I selected to take Contemporary Issues in British Welfare, which is a class that deals with a lot of social issues, and has a large focus on the National Health Service. My classes are very informative, but very long. I feel very lucky that they have breaks and that BU provides free coffee and tea downstairs in the lounge. Also, having Fridays off is wonderful and allows for a decent amount of travel throughout Europe and the UK. The workload for these classes feels less than a normal class back on the Charles River campus, and because of the compact nature of the program, they each only have two main assignments (besides the required reading): a 2,500 word paper and the final exam.

After we finish this phase of the program we’ll have our break and then begin phase 2 or the internship phase. Students on the London Internship Program will start work at wherever they’ve been placed four days a week and then take “Elective B” either on Monday or Friday depending on their schedule. Again, each of these classes is four hours. I’ll be sure to update you on phase 2 of the program once I’ve experienced it.

The academic facilities at BU London are very different from Boston as well. Everything you need is located with the academic building at 43 Harrington Gardens. In Harrington you will find classrooms, the Student Affairs Office, a lounge with free coffee and tea, the mailroom and the library (complete with no print quota). It makes the academic life very convenient here in London: everything is right where you need it.

So there you go, a basic overview of academic life in the BU London Internship Program. So far, I don’t mind suffering through the four-hour classes too much, and once I put in my four hours for the day I’m free to experience London. It’ll be interesting to see what I think once my schedule changes to 9 to 5. I’ll let you know!

Walking down the streets of South Kensington, the voices that rise above all the others are Americans. In a restaurant, the sound of the silverware hitting the plates is louder than the voices of the Londoners. On the underground? Forget about it. Riders on the tube are silent. Everyone sits and reads the newspaper, no one talks to each other at all.

Volume is clearly what makes me stick out as an American here in London. Making an effort to whisper as I walk and talk with friends or not be loud on the underground is a challenge. I want to shout: “Hi! I’m here! I’m in London! Tell me about England!” the excitement is making it difficult to reign it in, but I’m sure I’ll get there. I’ll definitely have to bring my iPod on the tube from now on.

So why are Americans so loud? I’ve heard several theories over the last few days, including that we have to shout because our country is so large. I choose to believe that it has nothing to do with our country’s size, nor does it indicate that we’re obnoxious, as some of the English seem to think, but that we are enthusiastic. We have what one of our professors describes as “American Positivity” and we like to express it. We’re excited and loud and there is nothing wrong with that. So keep being loud, America, and let’s help England turn the volume up because I’m going to need some help if I’m going to hear what they’re saying.

His Argument: Exclusivity is a period is which you can test the dynamics of a potential relationship, and once you are pretty certain that you can function with this person, you can add the titles of “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” because you’re more determined to make it work, and you believe that it will work. The terms imply the intention of making the relationship more serious.

My Argument: Applying the labels of “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” is not a separate step from exclusivity. When you choose to be exclusive with any person, you are deciding to become their “boyfriend” or “girlfriend”. The labels don’t add another level of seriousness to the relationship, the exclusivity does that. The terms merely imply an exclusive relationship, nothing else.

So what do you think, BU? Is applying labels a separate step from exclusivity? Do the terms “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” make a relationship more serious? Fire away in the comments!

Nerd: This includes extensive knowledge of strange, specific thing along with a lack of interest in anything considered ‘cool’, ‘hip’ or ‘trendy’. Nerds are intelligent and have extensive knowledge on their fringe interests.

Geek: Geeks are usually interested in technology/gagets, but there can also be specific types of geeks (Harry Potter Geeks, Apple Product Geek, Political Geek, etc.). They are also very intelligent and have extensive knowledge on their particular interests, like Nerds, but often this can border on obsession.

Dork: Dorks are identifiable by a lame or outdated sense of humor, coupled with an extreme lack of social skills. Dorks are often silly and enjoy fridge interests, similar to Nerds.

This is a very scientific chart

So what do you think, BU? What makes someone a nerd, geek or dork? I like to think I’m a little bit of all three.

I began reading before we even served the pie. I knew that my grandparents met in high school, so I kept waiting for the moment when Jacky met Hal.

Instead I met Mel. Who is Mel? I have no clue. None at all. But gee, Grandma seemed to really like him. They went on a few dates in early 1942 before Mel joined the military and shipped out. Same with John Gardner, whoever that is.

By early February 1942, I had learned about dates with 6 different guys (you go, Grandma) and none of them were my grandfather. And then in early May: “Harold Tefft asked me to the prom. I said yes.” A week or two later they were “going steady” and then two weeks after that “”Harold and I broke up. Reason- I can’t tell him I love him”.

Wait. What?

Well, the diary (rudely) ended before my grandparents found true love. So my mom and I went on a quest…where were the other diaries? We went into the garage and dug out two boxes that had been out there for roughly 13 years. First we discovered original copies of some pretty historic newspapers.

These are some pretty historic events.

Then we found letters. Letters from my grandmother to my grandfather when she went off to college, then later when he joined the military, written from 1942-1945.

Grandma had a lot to say.

Here I had it: a written account of my grandparent’s love story, told from my grandma’s perspective. Full of words like “darling” and “sweetness”, the letters are dripping with affection. I’m still in the process of reading them, but it’s hard for me not to think about how my grandchildren won’t have this. What are they going read? Emails I exchange with their grandfather? Facebook messages? Tweets? This blog post? Somehow it’s not the same as letters carefully crafted in wonderfully familiar handwriting. I feel like a whole aspect of my grandmother that I never knew has come back to life, ready for me to discover.

And when I found the letter dated July 25, 1945 in which my grandmother accepts my grandpa’s marriage proposal, I could feel my heart melting. Her plea that they only get married if he was sure he wouldn’t be shipped off to war again because “she was far too cowardly to have him and then have to give him up so soon” is far more romantic than any romantic comedy I’ve ever seen. Sadly, I don’t think I’ll have such a wonderful momento from my future proposal for my children and grandchildren to discover.

I just hope that one day I have a story that is nearly as wonderful. And a beautiful way for my grandchildren to discover it.

She wrote her "yes" on the envelope so he wouldn't have to wait to read the letter.

Community centers around a study group at a community college in Colorado and their crazy adventures. And when I say crazy, I’m not kidding. It could be a mafia controlling the chicken fingers in the cafeteria or tainted meat turning everyone into zombies on Halloween, but the group always seems to find themselves in interesting situations. This show is 22 minutes of insanity and hilarity and it is such a wonderful escape every Thursday night.

It is also one of the more diverse shows on tv right now. And not just in terms of race (although it is racially diverse), but in character type. The handsome, cocky friend, the over-achiever, the pop culture savant, the liberal activist, the Christian fundamentalist, the former jock, and the older man returning to school all make an appearance in the study group, with fun and memorable minor characters popping in and out every few episodes. Everything about the combination of people is funny, and it keeps me tuning in every week.

And the writing…guys, this show is genius. And so, so quotable. “Britta don’t make jokes, you’re bad at it!”, “You’re more of a fun vampire. You don’t suck blood, you just suck.”, “For your information, I don’t have an ego. My Facebook photo is a landscape.”
And who wouldn’t want to go to a school that has full-out, no rules games of paintball assassins? I know I do (so work on that, BU). Basically, Community is the best show you’re not watching, and if it ends up getting cancelled (as is now likely, given it’s absence from the winter schedule), it will be sorely missed.

So Thursdays. 8pm. NBC. Watch it…let’s get to six seasons and a movie.

Ellipses

The best times are the simplest: leaning towards each other over the counter, teasing and being teased by Nora. Sprawling out on the couch with a bowl of white cheddar popcorn, talking about books for hours, piling up phone bills. Him catching me as I walk down the hallway. Playing pranks on Peter and getting winked at by Nora. Sitting in the back row of the theater in Boston and mocking the chick flicks and pointing out the impossibilities of the action pictures. Watching him roll his eyes through classes and the feel of his arm around my waist as we cross Comm Ave.

Debating the relative merits of authors and then thrilling to discover the ones we agree about completely. Holding the phone to my ear till it starts to ache because we’re talking about ideas late into the night and I’m surprising myself, stumbling my way—prompted by him—into really figuring out what I believe. Those rare moments when he laughs and the even rarer ones when he lets me catch a glimpse of his life before Boston. The moments when he reveals the softness he hides and I tease and it all ends with a kiss and contentment.

I want it to last forever.

I’m scared to death because I know it won’t.

Comma

It’s a role reversal. Others constantly tried to make me laugh, like it was some sort of game they were going to win. I loved that, but not as much as I love those rare occasions when I’ll say or do something and he will actually laugh out loud. The only problem is that most of the time, when I’m trying to make him laugh, he doesn’t, and when he does laugh, I was being totally serious.
I finish up Sanctuary during lunch, shedding more than a few tears for Temple and even for Lee and Ruby before I close the book.
The rest of the day is torture—I’m bursting to call him, but instead I have to listen to my teachers rambling about things like Byron or the French Revolution (things I’d usually be interested in, but not today). My teachers don’t understand why I don’t raise my hand once.
I race to my phone. I clatter up the stairs and wait while his phone rings. I let my backpack slide off my shoulder, wrestling my book out of the outer pocket.
Listen, I demand, and I have a sharp intake of breath.
“In the pavilion a band in the horizon blue of the army played Massenet and Scriabin, and Berlioz like a thin coating of tortured Tschaikovsky on a slice of stale bread, while the twilight dissolved in wet gleams from the branches on the pavilion and the somber toadstools of umbrellas”—did you ever in your life think you would read a sentence like that?—“Rich and resonant the brasses crashed and died in the thick green twilight, rolling over them in rich sad waves….” I suck in a ragged breath, feeling my cheeks flush with excitement. “And that’s his selling out book!”
One minute, he’s silent, the next he’s laughing harder than I’ve ever heard him. He laughs, and I cannot tear my ear from the phone.
But this is not the reaction I was looking for. I tell him to shut up. Still laughing, he grabs my attention, between gasps, reassuring me that it is beautiful prose and that he’s laughing because I’m so cute and that he thinks it’s hot that I’m that passionate about something like that.
“Can I borrow it?” He asks, and maybe he doesn’t understand why, but I tell him all I want to do is kiss him. I tell him I’ll mail the book.

Colon

I erupt finally, and I get the feeling he’s hiding a grin, “Why don’t you just make me a list of all the things you think are lame and then you’ll never have to tell them to me again!”
He smiles that half smile that used to infuriate me (and if I’m honest, sometimes still does, even if I love it more often than not, despite its cliché) and stomp off, leaving him to his extended family.
When I check the mail on the way into the house that afternoon, on top of the new issue of my Rolling Stone, and a profusion of junk mail, there’s an unsealed envelope.
I sit down on the stoop and open it, unfolding five pages of ragged-edged notebook paper.
Lame Things the top of the first page is labeled, and I can’t help but laugh out loud:

1. Christopher Self

Number two is small towns. Number seventeen is Ayn Rand. Number twenty-six reads, Professional racecar drivers.
Four pages of paper are covered on one side. It’s college ruled paper, thirty-two lines to a page, four pages, so that’s one hundred and twenty-eight things he thinks are lame. I’m not surprised. I roll my eyes and laugh again as I see what’s crammed into the bottom margin of the fourth page:

And that’s just offhand.

But I catch my breath at the fifth page. Things That Aren’t Lame:
1. Books

6. Emily

I know that Dad still doesn’t like him. Yes, he was rude to him the first time they met, but I would have thought that of anyone Dad would understand the need to protect yourself through words. But being glib isn’t the best way to get on Dad’s good side, and when Dad finally tells me exactly what he said, I realize that his words must have seemed designed to alienate himself from Dad from the first.
But he is caustic and sometimes even cruel to everyone else. And I don’t understand why, because with me he’s so…well, sweet isn’t the right word, but even though I spend more time than I probably should mulling over it, rejecting this word and that, it’s as close as I can get.

I ask him why on a regular basis, but I never get a real answer.