Laurie's light travel travel tips

Twenty nineteen - Not so wacky . More like wack, as in not or no longer working or functioning properly or very bad. Of course, not all year, not all months. The year began beautifully albeit somberly. My mother had suddenly passed away in August of the previous year, and as much as I was looking forward to graduation at King's, I spent part(s) of every day doubled over in tears. I was tasked with finding a job but given that I was still in Britain through the end of January, it was a little tricky. I conducted two phone interviews, one for a reporting job in Dubai (felt uneasy moving there) and Minnesota (read the weather report, so ditto). But frankly, the issue was the stage of my grief. I went to see a psychiatrist at King's, a wonderfully erudite and sensitive man, and in that one visit learned a lot: "Your confusion will not go away quickly; it will be more like months." This helped immensely. January On 14 January many in our small cohort of Eighteenth-

I've been back in the U.S. 10 months and it recently hit me: I am re-assimilating. I had never heard anyone speak of this concept. When I moved to Connecticut in 2001, Mom introduced me to the concept of assimilation in the guise of a printed sheet from some psychological thinktank. According to this, it takes a year to assimilate within a new culture, but some never manage to assimilate at all. Now that I am back in Connecticut, I realize that I was yanked away from London just months after I had assimilated. It wasn't so much about spellings and such - I wrote my dissertation (yah!) in British English! - but the smaller, subtle everyday things. Missing London this morning, I felt I should enumerate: 1. Americans are louder. I don't care what anyone says. It's true. I ride public transpotation, where it appears to be a national disease. I never once heard Londoners shriek on the tube. People quietly study their mobile phones or yes, books, or speak in civil tones wi

I knew when I met Stuart that he was special, but I could hardly envision how our natural bond would comfort me months later. Whilst researching my dissertation in London, I frequently scurried past a Chinese restaurant at Russell Square. One day I decided to go in. I immediately felt at ease, even if it was one of those hard or punk rock afternoons when staff played music to please their tourist customers. Stuart is a father of one little boy, is as sharp as a Ginzu 🔪 and as kind as Mother Theresa. I can't write this without tearing up. I ate at his restaurant nearly every week whilst researching my thesis. It is about a 20- minute jaunt to the British Library from here, and a good midway point before hopping on the Tube at Russell Square or resting before walking to Holborn. I must admit it took me till the summer before I stopped walking all the way to Temple if I couldn't handle Russell Square, where my MacAir was stolen! But the saddest story of all was when I had to