Awkward pictures are the best pictures

I could tell you about our discussion of Our Mutual Friend this morning (since it was fascinating), but I won't because I know that most of you reading this blog have never read Our Mutual Friend. It's a different experience from the standard English classroom though, where usually I'm one of the few people who ever contributes to discussion. In this group of over-achievers, it's almost impossible to fit in a comment - and by the time it's your turn, the comment isn't even relevant anymore. So... Mom, I am learning and going to class here. You also have to remember that the entire idea of the program is that the city itself serves as a classroom. I can't number the type and scope of things that I've learned from being here (and that I learned two years ago when I was abroad in Spain), most of which are far more valuable than anything I could ever learn in a traditional classroom setting.

In the afternoon Jon took us on a walking tour through Kensington and Notting Hill, where we had more fun with statues. After the group walk, Whitney and I split off on our own to explore a little more. We had wanted to go to the Natural History Museum, only to find out that the museum was closing right as we would have been arriving. We then considered the idea of browsing Harrod's, but quickly abandoned that plan when the Picadilly line was delayed. So we ended up heading to the Westminster area early (for our evening walking tour) and took the long route around Buckingham Palace to see all the embassies within the governmental and political hub of London. After making our way around to the front of the palace, we decided to be the cheesey tourists that we are, and have a picture taken with one of the police guards at the gate in in his little funny hat (did I also mention that he carried a massive machine gun?) As soon as we had flanked the officer on either side to smile for the camera, I realized (and I gather that Whitney did as well) that I had nothing to do with my arms. The instinctual urge to place my arm around the shoulder of the person posing with me was clearly inappropriate. In a panic of not knowing what to do with my arms before the flash went off, I pasted them by my side and stood awkwardly and uncomfortably next to the officer for the photograph that will now and forever more be one of the gems of my scrapbook. To add to the glorious awkwardness of it all, upon reviewing the photo in the LCD, I cringed and laughed all at once to see that Whitney had apparently gone through the same panic attack that I had gone through while posing with the guard - arms pasted, body straight forward. Because the picture is so incredibly bad, I will always remember the experience.

The end of the day wound up in a walking tour given by Rodger Bowdler, who to my mind (and I suspect others'), is the quintessential British man with pinstripe suit, European pointy shoes, a hooked black umbrella, and a luxurious mane of greying wavy hair. I truly believe that at least 50% of our group adores him as the God of London's architectural history, about which we have endless questions on how the architecture of this ancient yet modern city plays into both its history and the present day. After the tour, someone was saavy enough to entice him to come to a pub with us, in which I particpated in what I believe was the most intellectual and scholarly conversation I have ever had at (what is essentially) a bar. Our topics ranged from politics, to Texas pride, to architecture, to famililes, to feminisim. All of this I partook of while enjoying a hearty glass of Guiness.