The London Review 2022: Epiphany by KU English Department Abroad

Table of Contents: Act I 14 16 18 20 22 24 26

Best Pies in London Worth a Special Journey Honey I’m Home Cheesecake to Remember A Little London Nosh Dough-Nut Miss These Delicacies Spilling the Tea

Act II 32 34 36 38 41 42 43 46 49 50 54 55 60 62 66 68 70

From Athens to London For Love of English Cramped Seat, Dough Balls... No Tie Required All of London is a Stage C.R.E.A.M. Underneath the Cobblestone London Then and Now English Sports Culture The Vagina Museum Watt’s Legacy No Matter Where You Go The Funny Thing About Art Marketing the Monarchy Pint Talk England a Book Tour Life Happens

Act III 74 76 79 80 82 84 86 89 92 95 97 99

Common Commotion Fear and Loathing in Leicester Square Leaving No Crumbs On the Streets of London From Kauffman to Sondheim Review: ‘Come From Away’ Double Shot An American Bibliophile There Are Plenty of Fish In the Sea How to Sustain a Mysterious Injury Get Thee Back to the Future Like a Londoner

Act IV 104 110 113 115 118 120 122 124 126 128 130 134 136 138 140 142 144

Color Coding Spontaneity Unscheduled Wandering Improv Traveling Happy Trails... Type A Personality Water World An Interview with a Guard Books, Books, Postcards... Leaving Comfort for London Acting Up in London K-Town Edition: Finding my Seoul... Learned Ladies of London A Little R&R Hyde and Seek The City of Big Ben Slacking Off and Other Good Ideas At Home in a Foreign City

Act V 148 150 152 153 154 156 158 160 162 164 165 166 168

A One Way Ticket to Stonehenge Stonehenge and Bath London 2007 vs. 2022 Mirrors London and My Mom Family Ties MCI - LAS - DIA - LAX - LHR Surface Pressure When in Bath Family Memories Shamrocks To be an Oxford Student The Cosmic Strathmore

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Epilogue

Biographies

Anne Kim was born and raised in Junction City, KS. She will be graduating from KU this Spring ‘22 with a human biology degree on the pre-medicine track. After graduation, she plans on taking a gap year. Hopefully, she will be accepted into medical school in the short future!

Anne Kim

Audrey Lehmann is a sophomore from St. Louis majoring in English and Communications Studies. When she isn’t daydreaming about being reunited with her dogs back at home, she likes to read, rewatch her favorite rom coms, and do puzzles. After graduating, she plans to work in publishing.

Audrey Lehmann Brooke Blankenship is a senior and graduating with her Bachelor of Science in Interior Architecture this May. She plans to continue her education at Georgia Institute of Technology where she will pursue a Masters of Architecture. When she is not working in studio, she can be found reading, playing volleyball, or spending time at the lake with her family.

Ashleigh Waggoner is a sophomore double majoring in English and History with a minor in Classical Antiquity. She is from Belton and has three dogs and two cats who she loves dearly. She loves spending time reading, hammocking, and playing the Sims. Road trips are her favorite form of travel, but the Underground is a close second. After graduation, she’d like to work in publishing or go on to graduate school.

Ashleigh Waggoner Brooke Blankenship

Brooke Ford is a Sophomore pursuing a major in Sociology and a minor in Creative Writing. They are from Oklahoma and love hiking there with my Australian Shepherd James. Their other hobbies include writing, rock climbing, and attempting to paint with Bob Ross. After graduation Brooke plans to get a masters and work in civil service.

Aubree Chavez is studying English with a minor in Women, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. Some of her hobbies include running, hot girl walks, reading, writing, a passion for Twilight, and now traveling. Aubree is an older sister to three younger siblings, and the oldest daughter of Joey and Cassie Chavez. Aubree hopes to either become a publisher or editor with hopes of going to graduate school.

Aubree Chavez

Brooke Forde

Drake Dugan is a sophomore studying Microbiology with the goal of fulfilling his spot at the UMKC school of dentistry’s reserved admission program. When he isn’t rattling off the dangers of periodontitis or inflating his already bolstering ego he enjoys graphic design, painting, and pretentiously listening to the same twelve Sondheim musicals, despite knowing every word, beat, and melody. Drake would like to thank his family and thousands of adoring fans (Dr. Klayder, Cara, Mr. T, and Kansas Perio) for providing him with the support to pursue his dreams in healthcare whilst also staying true to himself and nurturing his passion for the arts.

Hannah Fraga is a second-year student studying accounting and economics with a minor in creative writing. She gets very excited about eggnog, books, and CrossFit. Sometimes she writes too.

Drake Dugan

Hannah Fraga

Emme Bina is a junior from Wichita, KS majoring in civil engineering with an environmental emphasis and minoring in geology. During her free time, she enjoys hiking, reading books at coffee shops, strumming her ukulele, and traveling. You can find her quoting SNL and John Mulaney with a coffee in hand on a daily basis.

Jet Semrick is a junior from Prairie Village, KS studying computer science and economics. He is a member of the University of Kansas debate team and works as a debate coach for high school students. Jet is a SELF Fellow in the School of Engineering and a Jennett Finance Scholar in the School of Business. In his free time he plays basketball and video games with his roommates.

Emme Bina

Ginny Hannahan is a junior from Fairhope, Alabama majoring in philosophy with a certificate in logic & formal reasoning and minoring in english. Aside from her primary occupation as a self-proclaimed donut connoisseur, she loves to spend her free time watching KU basketball, taking road trips, and spending too much money at Sylas & Maddy’s. She is really passionate about education reform, so she hopes to pursue that interest in some capacity after graduating.

Jet Semrick

Mackenzie Gregory is a freshman from Saint Louis, Missouri majoring in English and Classics with minors in History and Theatre. She loves books, tea, art, and her little zoo back home including her chinchilla Reuben, her bearded dragon Apollo, and her four dogs Sugar, Raven, Thor, and Loki. She is grateful to have had the opportunity to travel to Britain and is excited to return for future study abroad programs.

Ginny Hannahan

Mackenzie Gregory

Madalyn (Mady) Edmonds is a Junior from Olathe, KS, in her first year at KU’s School of Pharmacy. When she isn’t overtaken by her graduate courses, she enjoys baking, watching embarrassing reality tv, and taking her pets on a walk. Mady would like to thank her family, classmates, and professors for pushing her to explore the world as much as possible. She is grateful for all the memories she has gained through these experiences with Dr. Klayder and looks forward to many more.

Max Lilich is currently a junior majoring in Political Science with minors in Business, Sociology, and Jewish Studies. He plans to go to law school and then become a litigator, but he still does not know what type of law. Max enjoys spending time with friends and family, going to the gym, playing tennis, and discussing global affairs. He is currently involved with Student Senate as the director of internal relations and will be the managing director of CCO next year.

Mady Edmonds

Max Lilich

Naomi Madu is an “experience junkie”. She’s also a senior at the University of Kansas majoring in Strategic Communications from Abuja, Nigeria. Two of her biggest hobbies are travel and music - she’s always traveling to new places for music concerts/festivals!

Major Copeland is a sophomore from Topeka, Kansas. She is majoring in Psychology on the pre-med track with a minor in English. She has one cat that she misses very much while away at school. In her free time she enjoys reading, journaling and spending an unhealthy amount of time at Starbucks with friends. After graduation Major hopes to continue on to medical school and become a Psychiatrist.

Major Copeland

Marley Hays is a senior English major from College Station, Texas. She was drawn to the bombastic, fateful storms of Kansas where she found true love, with her cat Maurine. When she is putting off working on her thesis in creative nonfiction, she can be found going on nature walks, talking to chickens, sitting in silence, listening to Fiona Apple, and generally being a bluestocking. She’s good at being uncomfortable, so she can’t stop changing all of the time.

Marley Hays

Naomi Madu

Radhia Abdirahman

Radhia Abdirahman is a senior studying Human Biology & GIST with a minor in African and African Diasporic Studies. Radhia was born in Kansas City but spent time growing up in Canada and the United States alike. She values her family and close friends and spends her free time hanging out with them. She has always been involved with her community, which extended to Lawrence when she moved here! She has spent the last year as the Executive Director of the Center for Community Outreach, managing 13 programs that work with local community partners. This passion for public service has led her to pursue a graduate degree in public health after graduation. As far as her hobbies, Radhia enjoys vlogging her day-to-day life for her close friends to see and promoting sparkling water to all who will listen.

Sam Schaper is a freshman from Olathe, Kansas, majoring in English, Philosophy, and Sociology. He is a self-proclaimed bibliophile but when he isn’t reading books, he can be found writing, playing piano, or listening to music. After college, Sam will be pursuing a career in law.

Sam Schaper

Weston Curnow

Weston Curnow, fortunate son of Olathe, Kansas, is a University Honors student studying English and Philosophy, minoring in German, and, for a Wescoe Native, spends too much time making music in Murphy Hall. Bibliophile, baritone, cyclist, and general pedant, Weston enjoys his time sunning, reading, café going, and discoursing with friends. Weston is a member of the KU Glee Club, Gilbert and Sullivan Society of Kansas, and Canterbury House of Lawrence where he works as an Episcopal Campus Minister.

Zack Green is a senior from Fresno, California, graduating in Fall 2022 majoring in history and minoring in french. After he graduates, he plans to go to law school (but don't ask me what I’ll do with it yet!). In his free time, he enjoys playing Animal Crossing, listening to audiobooks, watching movies, and taking care of his cat, Nova.

Sarah Lynne Jackson is from Dallas Texas, and studying to earn a Bachelor of Science in Journalism: Strategic Communications from the KU William Allen White School of Journalism and a minor in Political Science. She is a photographer and an avid reader. The London Review trip was only her second time out of the country, ever! She hopes to continue photography and travel after graduation and to pursue strategic communications as well.

Sarah Lynne Jackson

Zack Green

Sophia Misle is a senior from Lincoln, NE majoring in journalism and minoring in creative writing. After graduation, she plans on working in digital marketing in Kansas City. In her free time, you may find her watching The Office or playing with her cat Benji.

Harry Swartz works full time in the KU Honors Program but is also a graduate student studying higher education administration in the School of Education and Human Sciences. He has an undergraduate degree in political science and Spanish and a master’s degree in Spanish literature, both from KU. Outside of work and school, he loves traveling, running, dogs, coffee, IPAs, beautiful Downtown Lawrence, and the Kansas Jayhawks (Rock Chalk!).

Sophia Misle

Harry Swartz

Ode to Chaperones

Doug Crawford-Parker teaches in the English Department at KU where he specializes in creative non-fiction. He was excited to see the return of the London Review in 2022 after what felt like an intolerably long break.

Doug Crawford-Parker

Sarah Crawford-Parker is the director of the KU Honors Program. She is trained as an art historian and loves visiting and teaching about museums. One of her favorite parts of the 2022 London Review was the number of sunny days.

Sarah Crawford-Parker

Mary Klayder teaches English at the University of Kansas. She also takes great joy in leading students on trips to the UK and Costa Rica. London Review 2022 is the 57th study abroad program that she has directed and it is the 24th London Review.

Mary Klayder

Thank you Sarah, Harry, Doug and Mary. At 6am when we hit the ground, you waited patiently with us for our hired bus to arrive at Heathrow. You held your tongues and gritted your teeth as you listened to giddy put-on British accents bursting from our adrenaline-fueled, saliva-encrusted mouths. But you guys were more than babysitters. You were opportunity creators, happy to encourage our budding interests over breakfast. You pushed us to seek out new experiences, reach out to people in London, and go to Hampstead Heath. You shuttled us around town and to Oxford, raising hands like a lighthouse, always putting yourselves in our view so you could curry your flock. You gave us art history tours at the National Gallery. You met us one on one when our trips weren’t going to plan. When the week was thinning out, you cut the bullshit. “No, you MUST go here.” No more Harrod’s, wasteful detours, Changing of the Guards. You waited a sleepless 24 hours for all of our Covid results to come back negative. You bore the emotional weight of any crisis, prepared in a moment to leap into action. And in your downtime, you shopped for yourselves (the audacity), met with your own friends (how very selfish!), and generally did your own fully-realized adult things. Most of all, we’re grateful for the offloading at every group dinner that showed us even the brightest, most self-sacrificing chaperones know how to have fun. From all of us Londoners, transplanted back into the States, we say, thank you. –Marley Hays on behalf of the Review 2022

Credits

Contributing Writers

Anne Kim, Ashleigh Waggoner, Aubree Chavez, Audrey Lehmann, Brooke Blankenship, Brooke Forde, Drake Dugan, Emme Bina, Ginny Hannahan, Hannah Fraga, Jet Semrick, Mackenzie Gregory, Mady Edmonds, Major Copeland, Marley Hays, Max Lilich, Naomi Madu, Radhia Abdirahman, Sam Schaper, Sarah Lynne Jackson, Sophia Misle, Weston Curnow, Zack Green

Editors

Anne Kim, Ashleigh Waggoner, Aubree Chavez, Audrey Lehmann, Brooke Forde, Ginny Hannahan, Hannah Fraga, Mady Edmonds, Major Copeland, Marley Hays, Sam Schaper

Snack Liasions

Ginny Hannahan, Sam Schaper, Sarah Lynne Jackson

Meeting Scribes

Ashleigh Waggoner, Zack Green

Design Team

Anne Kim, Brooke Blankenship, Brooke Forde, Drake Dugan, Mackenzie Gregory, Naomi Madu, Radhia Abdirahman, Sarah Lynne Jackson

Primary Photographers

Emme Bina, Sarah Lynne Jackson

Format Designers

Brooke Blankenship, Brooke Forde, Drake Dugan, Mackenzie Gregory, Sarah Lynne Jackson

Issue Designer

Brooke Blankenship

Graphic Designer Drake Dugan

Portrait Illustrator Mackenzie Gregory

ne cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well” Virginia Woolf

Best Pies in London: Blood, Beef, and Booze Drake Dugan

“There’s no place like London.” This line endlessly replayed in my head during my days in the aforementioned city, and of course so too did the origin of these words, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. London… the home of everyone’s favorite murderous barber and his devilishly ditzy sidekick Mrs. Lovett. And while the threat of meat pies being made from stray cats or the flesh of seminarians (sorry Weston) was initially unappetizing, after a sampling of Scotch eggs, the risk of eating a little priest became a lot easier to swallow, and fortunately everybody goes down well with beer.

“I guarantee to give you, without a pennies charge, the closest shave you will ever know” Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, Act one

To begin my experiences with British pub food, I shall paint a picture of the worst: black pudding scotch eggs. A soft-boiled egg with a runny yolk, wrapped in black pudding, a British blood sausage, that has been breaded and deep fried, but is served cold. Now, admittedly, I didn't expect it to be good, but it was impressively bad. The meat was firm since it was cold, the sausage was disturbingly floral and citrusy, and the texture combination of tough meat, crispy breading, and boiled egg was just vile. I shall not mince my words… it really was horrendous! It was one of those foods that you can't swallow because it's so nasty, but you don't want to keep chewing because of the putrid flavor. I honestly cannot fathom a society that upholds such a violation of all things that are decent. My only solution to this riddle is that the only way a person could ever dream up such an abomination, let

alone eat it, is if they were drunk. Therefore, it was also a good day to try my first ever beer, a Peroni at the St. Patrick’s Day festival. However, I think I would have needed to slug at least four more Peronis to make the scotch egg bearable.

Now onto the star of the London pub scene: meat pies. I went to London knowing that I wanted to get a meat pie purely for the Sweeney aesthetic, but what I didn’t know is that I would leave with an avid love for those ambrosial delights. My first pie was from the St. Patrick’s Day festival. The crust was flaky, crispy, and overcooked in the best way, plus bonus points for the clover on top. The steak and cheese filling was tender, rich, and full of hearty chunks of potato and sweet potato. My second pie was from Oxford’s Turf Tavern. Again excellent. This time I took no chances with the possibility of cannibalistic fillings

“Oh, Mr. Todd, I’m so happy. I could eat you up, I really could” Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, Act two and went with chicken and mushroom. It was served with a delicious brown gravy, brussels sprout hash, and chips. The gravy added a deep umami flavor to the pie and complemented the earthiness of the mushrooms wonderfully. The brussels sprouts added a sense of freshness to the otherwise dense meal. The decadence of the pie itself could only be described as choice and rare; it was like eating an exquisite comforting savory and sweet chicken noodle soup wrapped up in an expertly crimped and glazed crust! The best way for me to express the scrumptiousness of Turf’s meat pies is to quote Sweeney Todd; “God, that’s good! That is de- have you -licious, ever tasted, smell such, Oh my God, what perfect, more, that’s pies, such flavor, God, that's good!!!”

“It’s man devouring man, my dear, then who are we to deny it in here?” Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, Act one

Worth A Special Journey By: Max Lillich

The most coveted award in the culinary profession is three stars from the Michelin Guide. When a place receives three Michelin stars the guide describes it as “worth a special journey”. There are only 13 Michelin 3 star restaurants in the U.S, 12 of which you would have to go to California or the Northeast for, and one of which is in Chicago; However, there are 5 in London. You probably have guessed by now but a Michelin star restaurant also carries a hefty price tag with it. I think of myself as a person who enjoys the cheaper things in life. Whenever I want to splurge on a meal I go to chipotle and spend the unfathomable $10 on a burrito bowl. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy finer food, Instead I would rather just watch videos, look at pictures, and read about it. But, I knew I wanted to have some kind of a splurge during this trip and the highest level of culinary achievement is what I decided on. Eventually I settled on Restaurant Gordon Ramsay and had to make a reservation 2 months in advance. If you couldn’t guess by the name this is the restaurant where Gordon Ramsay made a name for himself and yelled at a countless number of chefs. I fully expected this to be a pretentious experience where I would be scoffed at for not knowing which side of the plate to put my fork on and the differences between brie and camembert. My experience was the complete opposite of this. Before I even get into the food it is worth noting that the service alone was worth a special journey. Each table had their own waiter and there was a head waiter that would also go around and make sure everything was in order. When

I went to use the restroom (which will inevitably happen during a 3 and a half hour meal) 4 waiters rushed to make sure the door was held open for me. Everytime you got up to go to the bathroom the waiters would refold your napkin. I thought it would be fun to fold it the exact way they did and leave, upon my return I found out they still unfolded and refolded it. This was all very impressive, but the real star of the show was of course, the food. After some amuse bouche, which if you are like me you had no idea what an amuse bouche was until the waiter explained that they are little bite sized snacks you eat before the meal, I embarked on the food journey. Pictures are below because it would be impossible to justify paying that much for a meal and not taking pictures. Each dish was perfect in its own way with unique flavors that perfectly matched each other. A unique thing at this restaurant was that in many of the dishes I could almost feel the flavors change and further develop complexities as I chewed. My favorite was the scottish turbot with citrus sauce, after taking a bite it just melted in your mouth which is something I’ve never experienced before with fish. Each dish was also presented as if it were a piece of art and almost sufficed for me not visiting the Tate Modern. That presentation was not limited to the food, each dish came out in equally impressive intricate glass and ceramic along with new sets of silverware for each course. After the pre-desert, desert, and post-desert (yes you read that right) we began to think

our meal was coming to a close, however this would not be the case. We may have ﬁnished the food, but we still had more to experience. After our meal the head waiter invited us to the kitchen where we saw more chefs than diners hard at work with incredibly specialized tasks. It was amazing we got to see them assembling dishes with tweezers and mixing sauces in pots about the size of a coﬀee mug. I observed one chef feel a piece of lamb with the side of his hand which apparently allowed him to know that the lamb was undercooked because he then took it back to a cooking station. Once our tour of the kitchen was complete we witnessed a liquor cabinet that contained a bottle of cognac worth about 200 pounds an ounce. Something that needs to be understood about this meal is that you are paying for the food and the experience. This dining experience is something I have never even come close to and was absolutely worth a special journey.

RAMSAY QUOTES Max Lillich

“My gran could do better! And she’s dead!” “Why did the chicken cross the road? Because you didn’t f*cking cook it!” “This fish is so raw, he is still finding Nemo!”

Honey, I’m Home: From Bee to Borough. By: Mady Edmonds

One staple of London is the Borough Market, full of goods to be sampled. If you gave me unlimited time, I would undoubtedly spend my whole day (and allotted budget) exploring the different products available from the local vendors there. The downside of having 4,377 miles between the market and our college town is that it is pretty challenging to get fresh produce to stay fresh as you journey home. Unlike most Londoners, we had an eight-hour trans-Atlantic flight followed by a four-hour layover and another one and a half hour flight before we even got close to putting our goods in a fridge so they wouldn’t spoil—one thing I found that would hold out for our entire journey -- honey. Tucked away in a little corner of the market sits a stand with too many honey variations to even comprehend. Devon flower honey from England, Lavender honey from Spain, and even Tasmanian honey from Australia. There are rows upon rows of honey from different flowers and locations across the world, all at the tips of your fingers (or tongue, if you would rather.) From Field and Flower is a store specializing in raw, unpreserved honey that is characteristic of the rolling hills, mountains, plains, and woodlands that they come from. While sampling their many different kinds of honey, I decided to chat with the worker about the various aspects of his role and the company as a whole. It became apparent right away that From Field and Flower had three main principles (as eloquently stated on their website) that guide their practices:

1. Does it come from great, small producers who really care about their bees? 2. Is it delicious as it is, or can it be made into something plate licking good? And 3. Would we be happy to share it with our friends and family? Although I may not have been family, the workers there made me feel like it as we talked through the process of getting honey from bees to the Borough Market. What I loved most about the whole process was that all the honey came from local beekeepers who truly cared for their bees like their own children. It all started with two people, Sam and Stefano, looking at some of the best small honey producers within the Piedmont, Italy area, and bringing their products to London in November of 2013 to sell in markets such as the Borough Market. As their following grew, they branched out to other regions, still always supporting small beekeepers. It is evident that everyone who works in this business has a true passion for their products. Unlike most supermarket jars of honey, the ones sold by From Flower and Field are all very different depending on the flower the bee had pollinated before heading back to its hive. If you can think of a type of flower, they probably have a kind of honey for it; Orange Blossom, Cacti, and Sussex Wildflowers are all on the extensive list of honey they carry. Their honey is also raw, meaning that no pasteurization has occurred. The kind gentlemen I talked to about their products told me that raw honey is the best kind for providing antioxidants and soothing sore throats when you’re sick. One spoonful in a cup of lukewarm water or tea is all you’ll need to feel better. The

many spoonfuls they fed me did make me feel much better, not just physically but also mentally. It was so good that I even bought some for both my mom and myself -- one devon ﬂower honey from England and one lavender honey from Spain. I used the guise that one was for my mother, but let's be(e) honest -- I will probably end up keeping both for myself. I never thought I would become so interested in the process of harvesting and selling honey, but there’s always a ﬁrst for everything.

Some of the many wonderful jars of honey I was able to taste.

Their Borough Market storefront.

The iconic logo you’ll ﬁnd on all of their products.

RANDOM HONEY BEE FACTS 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Bees have five eyes. Male bees in the hive are called drones. Bees fly about 20 mph. Number of eggs laid by queen: 2,000 per day is the high. A Colony Can Contain Up to 60,000 Bees A Single Worker Bee Produces About .083 of a Teaspoon of Honey Honey is 80% sugars and 20% water. The Honey bee’s wings stroke 11,400 times per minute, thus making their distinctive buzz.

Cheesecake to Remember By: Aubree Chavez

While in London, I decided to have cheesecake every single night. This was not a planned trip tradition, but it was something that fell into place. On the ﬁrst night of the trip, while eating with our group at Pizza Express, past me had decided to order cheesecake for dessert. It was the ‘Lotus Biscoﬀ Cheesecake’ served with tea.

our hearts’ content while recapping what happened that day.

Aubree, Drake, & Major on the Second Night

Lotus Biscoﬀ Cheesecake

During the entire dinner, I was having diﬃculty staying awake, but when this dessert was placed in front of me, I was ecstatic to try it. The cheesecake was fantastic, and I was happy with my past decision. The next day, following a long day of touring London and participating in tourist attractions, I expressed wanting cheesecake to Major and Drake before going to bed. Drake suggested going to Pizza Express, and we all decided to head out quickly before they closed. After ordering the ‘Triple Salted Caramel Cheesecake’ and ‘Red Berry & Vanilla Cheesecake,’ Major, Drake, and I ate to

On Monday, I was joking with Major about getting cheesecake again, and instead of it being a possibility, we decided to make it a reality -- why not actually get some? We went for the third night in a row and decided that it would be part of our nightly routine for the remainder of the trip. After a full day at Oxford exploring with friends Major, Ashleigh, and Mady, we ran through the streets of London to get cheesecake before they closed. Instead of getting it to go as we had the two days prior, the hostess who was helping us told us to sit down because the cheesecake came with ice cream, and she didn’t want us to miss out. We all sat down and enjoyed the ice cream before taking back the cheesecake to eat at the hotel. The following day, in a rush to get cheesecake before seeing Hamlet, Ashleigh and I quickly bought cheesecake

to go and brought it into the theatre, not knowing if we were allowed to or not. We quickly found Major, rushed down to the basement, and ate the cheesecake like our lives depended on it. It was certainly diﬀerent from our other cheesecake outings in the fact that we were rushed to eat, and we may have potentially snuck in food when we weren’t supposed to. The cheesecake was a great way to start the show and brought many laughs while trying to eat it as fast as possible.

Film Photo: Major & Ashleigh with the Cheesecake

On Thursday, while in Cambridge with Ashleigh and Major, we decided to get cheesecake around 5pm instead of later that night. We sat in at the restaurant and talked about the trip. When we got our cheesecake, all of us got a diﬀerent one, allowing us to have one of each available option; the ‘Triple Salted Caramel’ had salted caramel popcorn on top, which wasn't something we had seen before, so we were shocked but delighted in the taste. On Friday, the second to last night, we went into Pizza Express excited to get our cheesecake. The man, who we decided to call ‘Cheesecake Man,’ recognized us and immediately asked if we were getting cheesecake. Knowing that someone who worked at Pizza Express knew who the three of us were made us laugh, but we were excited that we had almost had cheesecake every night. When Cheesecake Man asked if we wanted the ice cream with our cheesecake, we expressed that we would just go back to the hotel so he didn’t have to worry about

it. Leaving with cheesecake in hand, we departed with many thanks and sat down in the hotel lobby to eat our cheesecake. We were delighted to see that he had made the cheesecake extra pretty, and he even gave us ice cream to go. It made our night that he had found a way to make the to-go cheesecake something memorable, and all three of us were both excited and sad to eat our last cheesecake the following night. On the last night, after eating another group dinner, we went to Pizza Express one last time and ordered two cheesecakes. We talked to the lovely host who had been helping us, and when he asked if he would see us tomorrow, we told him it was our last night. Grasping his heart, he said, “It’s been a pleasure.” We left with our cheesecake, and when we opened the to-go boxes, we found that he had again decorated the cheesecakes beautifully and had even given us a free cheesecake. Sharing one last night of cheesecake was such a memorable thing for me, and I am so glad I got to experience trying cheesecake every single night with diﬀerent people in the group. I had a great experience every single time. Cheesecake in London will always be special to me, whether it be the caramel, berry, or the original lotus biscoﬀ.

The Final Cheesecake Escapade

A Little London Nosh By: Sophia Misle

Sadly, midwestern America, particularly Lawrence, Kansas does not offer a plethora of Jewish food. I have been used to this my entire life, simply because the Jewish population in the United States is only 1.8%. The Jewish population in the United Kingdom is even less at 0.55%. Through my Jewish food journey, I encountered some triumphs and some disappointments. Reuben’s Kneidlach: I felt at home the moment the waitress set the bowl of glistening chicken soup with matzo balls in front of me. You know how they say less is more? Two matzo balls and chicken broth with small noodles in it is as simple but delightful as it could get. The noodles were short and thin to not overpower the matzo balls which should be the star of the show. Just enough salt was present in the broth with a dash of nostalgia. Reuben’s could puff their chest and say, “Hey, we don’t need any fancy seasonings or vegetables to have an amazing matzo ball soup.” The soup speaks for itself. Now I’m going to go for it. The spoon slips right through the kneidlach but has a little bit of a harder time in the middle. Uh oh. Why is it fluffy towards the top but sort of dense in the middle? Hm. Who knows? I’m going to see what happens. Fluffy versus dense matzo balls has been a Jewish debate for many generations. My family’s recipe for fluffy, pillowy matzo balls has been passed down for four or more generations. Firm, chewy matzo balls? Never heard of her until this day.

The slight smile on my face drooped as I realized these were dense, almost tough matzo balls, not the fluffy ones I grew up with. Fluffy matzo balls almost melt in your mouth like cotton candy. You don’t really have to chew them a lot. These were a different story. It was a strange feeling to have a chewy matzo ball that your teeth can sink into. Sometimes I would feel grains of matzo meal which was probably the worst part. No one wants to feel grains of sand in their mouth. However, I ate the entire thing. Mainly because it was warm and I was extremely hungry. If I was able to eat everything on my plate that was presented to me it clearly was not the worst thing I have ever eaten in my life. I was nothing but grateful to have had a Jewish delicacy as I slipped my rain jacket on and walked out of the restaurant into the pouring rain. Moishe’s Bagelry & Bakery:

My favorite courses of any meal include the starter bread or dessert. So, I knew I needed to visit Moishe’s Bagelry & Bakery, a Borough Market vendor that offers Jewish bread and sweets. Rugelach was a rare treat growing up but it is one of my favorite Jewish delicacies. It is a pastry rolled with fillings such as nuts, jam or chocolate. I took three pieces of the chocolate rugelach because who knows when I am going to have a chance to eat rugelach again for a while?

that looks rather plain on the outside but boasts artwork from all over the world on the inside. I would tell any Jewish person to visit Moishe’s Bagelry & Bakery while in London. I felt right at home in a place that is not known for its Jewish cuisine.

The dough was the perfect texture with just a bit of flakiness on the outside. This dough combined with rich chocolate made this Jewish gal pretty happy. I would rate these a 10/10 for sure. Babka was never something we made in my household but I have always snagged a piece whenever it was available. Raisins, nuts or chocolate can be added to this loaf-shaped coffee cake made from a sweet yeast dough. Moishe’s babka was perfectly moist and had a very rich chocolatey flavor to boot. I would rate the babka a 9.5/10, simply because I preferred the rugelach more as a bite-sized pastry. Challah bread is a Jewish staple as it is present during many Friday night Shabbat dinners and Jewish holidays. I looked forward to Sunday mornings because we would use Friday night’s challah for French toast. It is one of my favorite memories I have with my father who passed away from Crohn's disease in 2015. Moishe’s challah rolls were sweet, just like the challah I grew up with. I would recommend them to anyone. 10/10. Finally, I had to try Moishe’s rainbow bagel. The bagel had a hint of sweetness to it just like the challah bread. The color obviously did not provide any flavor but was a fun start to the day before heading to the Tate Modern, a museum

Bob’s Lobster Although Bob’s Lobster would not be on the list of any Jewish eats article due to lobster not being kosher, I thought this was absolutely the cutest stand in Borough Market. My family did not keep kosher growing up and I love most seafood, especially lobster. Sadly, Bob’s Lobster was not open so I could not try the famous lobster mac ‘n cheese but hopefully I can try it someday.

Dough-Nut Miss These Delicacies! By: Ginny Hannahan

My love affair with this most delectable of breakfast foods has more than withstood the test of time. When traveling it’s become something of a tradition for me to seek out the best local donut. My labors have, by and large, come to fruition: galactic blueberry, hibiscus tea, horchata, 100 layer s’mores croissant. These are just some of the flavors I’ve tried and loved. My point is, I have a problem, and it’s one I have found to be well worth exacerbating. Such was my mindset going into this spring break trip to London, motivating my excessive research via articles, Youtube videos, etc. I worked tirelessly to narrow down my list and schedule my days accordingly. And once again, my efforts were rewarded.

reputation, only making their locally adored donuts on Saturday and Sunday mornings. I knew they would sell out quickly, so fresh oﬀ the airport shuttle—jet-lagged and in desperate need of sugary sustenance—I made a beeline for that bakery. I tried their two most popular ﬂavors: Vanilla Custard and Raspberry Jam. Here’s my verdict: Dough: the texture was very light and not too oily, with a noteworthy yeast-y aftertaste (6 out of 10) Fillings: (1) Raspberry jam: too much and too tart; fresh, but slightly overpowering (4 out of 10) (2) Vanilla Custard: custard was heavy and rich; vanilla was well-balanced with a pleasantly muted sweetness (6 out of 10)

St. John’s Bakery (Maltby Street)

Crosstown Donuts

I began my humble quest at St. John’s Bakery oﬀ of Maltby Street Market in Southeast London. St. John’s has quite the

The next stop on my weeklong expedition was Crosstown Donuts, which has locations all throughout London. I visited the location smack dab in the middle of

The Mission.

the Brick Lane Sunday Vintage Market. After a long morning of walking, I made the mature decision to have a hearty, donut/coffee lunch to fuel me through the rest of my day. Crosstown uses sourdough as the base of their donuts, which makes for a very distinct texture and taste. They’re also known for incorporating unique spices and flavors. I once again opted for the most popular donut—the cinnamon scroll—along with the internet famous peanut butter and black currant. Here’s my verdict: Dough: (1) Cinnamon Scroll: fluffy, airy, pillowy, and yeasty without being boxed out by the icing/filling. (9 out of 10) (2) PB & Black Currant: had a similar texture, but only a hint of the taste; there was so much else going on that I couldn’t really appreciate it. (7 out of 10) Filling/Icing: (1) Cinnamon Scroll: Sri Lankan cinnamon gave this donut a full-bodied, rich flavor; Tongan vanilla bean icing provided a consistent glaze with a distinctive flavor harmonizing with the cinnamon and dough overtones (9 out of 10) (2) PB & Black Currant: best icing flavor wise. Currant was fresh, tart, and a nice balance to the PB’s sweetness; thickness paired nicely with thin-layered icing. A bit too much currant. Peanuts added a nice crunch, but just a few too many. I couldn’t really get the PB and Currant flavors together. (8 out of 10)

Bread Ahead Donuts (Borough Market)

My last sampling came courtesy of Bread Ahead Donuts located at Borough Market in Southeast London. These donuts were filled like the ones at St. John’s, but they had a much wider array of flavors and sold them all seven days of the week. I went with the Creamy Coconut, on the basis of personal preference (I’m a BIG coconut gal). Here’s the verdict: Dough: perfectly dense with a balanced yeast aftertaste that was a bit bolder than the others, but not overstated; luxuriously soft with a light dusting of crystallized sugar. (8 out of 10) Filling: creamy and light; texture was like a lightly whipped pudding; coconut flavor was natural and refreshing, effortlessly complimenting that velvet-like dough (9 out of 10)

Spilling the Tea: A Review of London’s Coffee Scene By: Emme Bina

Tea. It can be considered one of the most profound stereotypes posed on the British for how they get their caffeine fix. But what about British coffee? Was it cast to the side in favor of its leaf-drink cousin? Have coffee drinks and coffee shops progressed the same as in the United States? I, Emme Bina, a self-proclaimed coffee-connoisseur, decided to get to the bottom of these head-scratching questions. Therefore, I wanted to embark on a journey to various coffee shops throughout London. I present to you… My London Coffee Adventures.

ounce of my body was aching for an artiﬁcial energy boost.

PAUL Location: South Kensington Rate: 5/10 After a two-hour sleep fest on the red-eye flight from Charlotte, NC, to London, England, it was essential to find a coffee shop as soon as possible. After dropping off our belongings at the hotel, Ginny Hannahan and I skedaddled to the nearest coffee shop. This first coffee shop was PAUL - a French bakery chain. I ordered a latte (my favorite coffee drink) and a pain chocolate. I accidentally stole the pain chocolate, but that is another story. For those clueless about coffee drinks, a latte is a delectable espresso beverage with one part espresso to three parts steamed milk and foam. My first sip of the latte was mediocre. The latte was extremely milky, covering the coffee taste. Yet, the latte still had a good flavor, especially since every

Moments before sampling the ﬁrst London coﬀee shop.

Over Under Location: South Kensington Rate: 9/10 Right after my first impression of London’s coffee scene, I craved another coffee shop. Plus, I needed another pick-me-up to start my exploration of London. Ginny and I walked over a block to our next victim, a local coffee shop called Over Under. It is a cutesy modern coffee shop by day, turned small bar by night. When we sat down at our table to order, I noticed something on their menu that foreshadowed my coffee drink

experience. It was coffee notes listed on their menu! Folks, if you see coffee notes on a coffee shop’s menu, it will be an excellent experience. The menu described the coffee blend as chocolate and macadamia notes. These notes did not disappoint. I ordered a cortado – a one-to-one ratio of espresso to steamed milk. It was incredibly silky; my taste buds were floating on clouds. However, the aftertaste grounded them. From the overly acidic flavor for my taste combined with milk’s aftertaste, the overall rating of the coffee was brought down a couple decimal points.

CrossTown Location: Brick Lane Rate: 8/10 Sunday for lunch, Ginny and I decided to get the lunch of champions – donuts. We came across the donut shop CrossTown. Along with our peanut butter and jam donut and cinnamon scroll, we ordered americanos (espresso shots with hot water). The coﬀee was highly acidic and bitter, alluding to a light/light-medium blend; however, it paired nicely with the sweetness of the cinnamon scroll. It was a great choice of a blend for a donut shop. The drink exhibited woody notes with bright but warm undertones. For a donut shop, the coﬀee did not disappoint.

The Roasting Party Location: Chelsea Rate: 9.5/10 I had a lingering thought in my mind that I had to finish a lab report for my Soil Mechanics class, so I wanted to go to a coffee shop and work on it as I do back home. (Yes, I am an engineering major. And yes, I do realize how drab that class sounds). Monday afternoon, I searched the good ole Yelp app to find the top coffee shops in London. The Roasting Party popped up; it had great reviews, and

I thought the name was hilarious. I got to the coffee shop and realized that the shop had zero seating. Thankfully, the shop was part of a larger alley that contained boulangeries and other eateries, so there were many chairs and tables outside. After ordering a cortado and chocolate banana bread, I went outside to one of the tables. I whipped out my laptop and began to work. I took my first sip of the cortado, and I was struck by a bus headed to FlavorTown. The espresso had this great boldness to it with major notes of chocolate. My brain was screaming “Molasses!!!” every time I took a drink. I find this dark coffee blend to be unique. It began to rain a few sips in; I saw this occurrence as a sign from Above. I stopped working on my lab report, threw my laptop into my bag, and began to people-watch. The cortado was incredibly warm and comforting while I sat there and did one of my favorite activities.

Queen’s Lane Coffee House Location: Oxford Rate: 7/10 Tuesday, the class embarked on a journey to Oxford to explore the town for the day. Of course, the top item on my Oxford bucket list (besides seeing sites where Harry Potter was filmed) was to go to a coffee shop. Once I arrived in Oxford, the first shop I noticed was Queen’s Lane Coffee House. (Yes, I realize that this coffee shop is not in London, but I made an exception.) The shop claimed “the oldest established coffee house in Europe” on a sign. It was calling my name, and I had to answer. The coffee shop’s specialty is Turkish coffee – an extremely fine ground coffee brewed in a special Turkish coffee pot. The coffee is typically found in small, highly concentrated doses with slight foam at the top and fine ground sludge at the bottom of the cup. I ordered the Turkish coffee without sugar. The coffee is extremely strong since it is very concentrated. Yet, it was still very yummy.

The drink paired very well with the Turkish gummy candy that came on the side. The coﬀee had a grimy texture since the grounds were at the bottom of the cup. I would not recommend this drink to anyone who is bothered by texture. Overall, it was a great experience trying something new!

espresso with a two-to-one ratio of espresso-to-milk. The drink was exactly what I needed. The espresso had strong notes of dark chocolate. It was quite delicious, especially for a museum café. Plus, the barista made a small heart in the milk foam. One way to win my heart is through latte art.

The Monmouth Location: Borough Market Rate: 10/10

The history of coﬀee painted on the walls of Queen’s Lane.

The Great Court Location: The British Museum Rate: 6/10 Ginny and I wandered through the British Museum Thursday mid-morning. After learning about the Ancient Greeks and Egyptians, I was due for a mid-day coﬀee pick-me-up. In European fashion, the British Museum had a café within its walls. I ordered a single Macchiato, not to get confused with Starbucks’ spin on the espresso drink. A traditional single macchiato consists of a single shot of

After purchasing a coconut cream donut from the bustling Borough Market, Ginny and I decided to pair it with a delicious cup of Joe. In our search for a coffee shop, we walked outside the Market and spotted it – one of the best-reviewed coffee shops in London, the Monmouth. Again, I took this occurrence as a sign, and we walked to the coffee shop. I ordered a piccolo (what a coffee shop calls a cortado when they want to be “different”). I noticed it was only €1.90, which is a super cheap price for this type of drink. I tasted the drink for the first time and was transported to another dimension. The espresso was, in fact, multi-dimensional. It had an evident note of spice with a slight hint of chocolate. The espresso brought a lingering, welcomed taste. That piccolo was an eye-opening experience; everything became so clear. This coffee shop was the best one I had been to during my exploration of London, and nothing could outdo it. Now, as I am sitting here in my apartment in Lawrence, KS, I can still imagine the taste of the piccolo that once was. Whelp. I guess I will have to go back to London for another Monmouth coffee.

A blurry snapshot of the best coﬀee in London Drinking a coﬀee while enjoying the view at Primrose Hill

Drinking a coﬀee while enjoying the view at Primrose Hill

Since I have a caffeine addiction, I went to many other coffee shops around the city. Nevertheless, these seven coffee spots were the most notable. Overall, I was quite impressed with London's coffee scene. The coffee was delicious wherever I

went. The shops' vibes were always immaculate. I could not help but smile every time I experienced what London's coffee scene had to offer. As a coffee lover and snob, I tip my hat. Well done, London. Well done.

Views from a Co ee Shop By: Emme Bina

While I was in the Monmouth co ee shop, I noticed this humorous (in my eyes) mural of an elder British man wearing a classic Newsboy cap and looking quite crossed. I intended to snap a shot of this mural with my Paper Shoot camera. Yet, I captured a picture that focused on something more important the strangers whose paths crossed with my own.

Act here is nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so” William Shakespeare

Mady Edmonds The most life-changing thing you can experience, in my opinion, is seeing a historical monument with your own two eyes. For me, it came when I was thirteen walking up the Acropolis to see the Parthenon in Athens with my Yiayia (Greek, for grandmother). It’s one thing to see pictures of something with so much grandeur, but it’s another thing to experience it ﬁrst-hand. I ﬁnd myself incredibly lucky to have such a rich family culture that I’ve been able to visit not once, not twice, but three times in my short twenty-one years of life. The Acropolis isn’t the only life-changing monument Greece holds, but it is undoubtedly the largest.

I remember being thirteen and barely able to comprehend what I was seeing. This was well before my interest in history was piqued during AP European History, so I had no idea why so many pieces of the Parthenon were either missing or destroyed. I can hear my Yiayia explaining to me, even now -- they’re not here, they’re somewhere in England. I didn’t understand at the time, and I can’t say my thoughts have become much clearer. Many politics go into such matters as this, especially when trying to move iconic pieces of art that have the reputation of being “stolen.”

My Thea, Yiayia, and I on the Acropolis from my ﬁrst trip to Greece.

A picture from my most recent trip to the Parthenon.

If you ask any Greek person where the Parthenon sculptures belong, they will say without hesitation that they should be placed back in Athens, at the shiny new Acropolis Museum. They’ll even argue that they have a special spot designated just for them. If you ask any British Museum worker, they will say they are

already where they belong. It truly depends on your view on the matter, which can vary wildly between groups. One thing I will say both the Greeks and the British Museum workers have in common -- they are too stubborn to consider the position of the other side. As someone seemingly stuck between viewpoints, I truly can’t tell you where I think they should go. There are valid arguments for both sides, which would take ages to untangle to get to the “right” decision. Whether the right decision exists or not, I couldn’t say. Although I certainly can’t do either of the arguments justice, I will try to list some of the critical points out here for you to formulate your own opinion on the matter.

The Greek people have fervently denied this claim, saying that this is such a speciﬁc request that it shouldn’t aﬀect the rest of the galleries. They don’t want all Greek art back, just the marbles related to the Parthenon, which they believe were unjustly taken from them. Ultimately, they want their art back since it is vital to the history and culture of the Greek people. The Parthenon, to them, would be like the White House to us -- it is a landmark with so much history and respect that it is hard to comprehend our country without it.

The Arguments. One thing that I think the British Museum has going for them is that it can showcase different cultures that the ordinary person wouldn’t get to see without having to travel to far-off places. The British Museum indeed seems all-encompassing in its coverage of various periods and cultures. Even if you had all day to roam through its halls, I doubt you would be able to see all that the British Museum has to offer. Another argument they make is that if the museum decides to give the Parthenon sculptures back, what precedent would that set for the rest of the pieces they have within their galleries?

Part of the Parthenon Marbles.

Signage denoting Lord Duveen of Millbank provided these galleries in 1939.

I guarantee you this is an issue that won’t be resolved anytime in the near future. Truthfully, the debate over the Parthenon marbles might never be solved. Seeing how passionate people can get when they believe wholeheartedly in an issue is wonderful yet bittersweet. It only adds to the complexity when the problem in question is the ownership of history. How can one decide who owns such a vital thing? I’ll leave that up to you to decide.

Emulating some of the sculptures within the British Museum.

For Love of English, In Our Hands.

"There are more things in heaven and earth,

plants from climates as far-reaching as California

Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your

and Malaysia. When the remnants of the empire are

philosophy." - Hamlet, Act I, Scene V. Neo-classical limestone, a towering monument to Victoria at every turn, Union Jacks, fuzzy hats, horses, swords, Opera, Royal Albert Hall, generals so-and-so, a lion here, an elephant there. Bricks, motorcades, palace walls. A storm of people crowding by gates to see the who’s who of geriatric dynasty. All of these things make up Central London. But dynasty doesn’t give the English people, or its language, its essential character. At least I didn’t feel that way. What is the character of London, then? I felt the character of London in the quiet quarters of the Westminster Quaker Meeting. There, people

nothing more than an ornate slate for all of the world’s beauty to be showcased, I can see good compromise in the character of London. It’s hard to not keep in constant mind the realities of Britain’s violent colonial history. It’s difficult to understand how it could be celebrated so uncritically, persistently by droves of tourists. Maybe it’s just chintz and pomp. Maybe 21st century Brits are happy to have a tacky brand with a dirty history at their helm as long as it brings in tourist dollars. But can’t we find love in the criticism too? That is, is there anything to love about England’s history that might make me proud to identify with it as a part of my own? What about its language?

rose to share their reflections on the crisis in Ukraine—how they felt it was their war, on their continent. That they needed to act. I felt it in the welcoming smiles of its patrons, beckoning us to share where we came from. Kansas, we said. Tea? they offered. I saw it in the mops of artificially dyed red hair, a common choice for aging women, who attended the Barbican center for a Monday night show. I felt it in Tayyabs, a Bangladeshi restaurant in Aldgate East where we were the only customers. I felt it in the Kew Gardens, where we waited in line behind 3 generations of an Indian family speaking Gujarati; the great-grandmother bespoke in a Gucci scarf. I felt it in the beautiful melding of nature and Victorian architecture there. Glass houses built under her reign, in her style, nevertheless filled with

I felt that love in Shakespeare’s Globe.

Radhia and I had just crossed the Thames on an Uber boat, moving backwards through space and time, feeling shoring waves lapping under our asses. I wanted an experience on the water, and I got it. Something shifted undertow.

The Southwark, Bouroughs Market Area is a clear

they speak in the highest register, in the end, they

departure from other parts of London. The

appear the fools.

buildings are darker, the alleyways more alternative. There are murals on the walls. Shakespeare’s Globe was originally in the Southwark area and its recent reconstruction gestures at the original in impressive detail. We watched the show in the Sam Wanamaker Theater, which also had gallery views.

Language is Liberating. Watching the play reminded me of the inexhaustible power of the English language. Before the play started, I bought a plague rat puppet. I longed for a time when raw sewage was being cast out into the streets. I was tired of the ruse of idyllic monuments. Where was the history of London’s poor rapscallions? Maybe those times were simpler, easier to be inspired in. In his essay, “Why I stopped hating Shakespeare,” James Baldwin says, “The greatest poet in the English language found his poetry where poetry is found: in the lives of the people. He could have done this only through love — by knowing, which is not the same thing as understanding, that whatever was happening to anyone was happening to

This macabre turret is what I wanted all of “Nasty London” to look like

Shakespeare’s drama Hamlet bursts with linguistic comedy, even as its subject matter is serious. I laughed out loud when King Claudius says to Hamlet, “But to persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness. ’Tis unmanly grief.” (I.ii.96-98). Of course he’d say that! He’s killed Hamlet’s father and he wants everyone to move on with their lives (quickly) to assuage his own guilt. I’m amazed at how much intention is embedded in seemingly innocuous statements. In the play, Hamlet’s character shone because he had a likeability and modern-ness. Shakespeare often does this in his plays. Characters have differing levels of awareness of each other and the audience. The character Hamlet transcended levels of class and difference. He stared Doug square in the eyes, breaking into our world. If he is mad and able to level with us (21st century audience) are we implicated in his madness? Meanwhile, Claudius and Gertrude writhe in their own anguish and oblivion, clinging to the past with their dress, and we are never able to access them directly. While

him. It is said that his time was easier than ours, but I doubt it — no time can be easy if one is living through it. I think it is simply that he walked his streets and saw them, and tried not to lie about what he saw: his public streets and his private streets, which are always so mysteriously and inexorably connected; but he trusted that connection.” Our work as citizens of this nation, and travelers of others, is to observe the links between private and public life. In 21st century Britain, a diverse coalition of people live with monarchy. They’re still telling the truth. Just watch Michaela Coel’s brilliant show I May Destroy You to understand what contemporary British writers are thinking about sexual politics, race, and class. Shakespeare reminds me that we can have fun doing the nasty work of writing what we see. The English language is being created every day. Linguistically, most innovation occurs in the creative pluck of marginalized people. English will always be the tool of the most daring hand. – Marley Hays

Cramped Seat, Dough Balls, and Other Things I’ll Remember When I’m Eighty By: Hannah Fraga

I’m sorry. I hated Hamlet. I know. It’s horrible. I was lucky enough to go to London and get a ticket to a critically-acclaimed performance, but all I can do is complain. Maybe it was something as simple as the legroom, or lack thereof, which left my surgery-ridden knee acting up for the first time in years, or the absence of a backrest. Maybe it was the constant screaming, the rapid-fire Shakespeare in muddled British accents, or the comedic tone that took away what little punch the ending had. Maybe it was the shoddy modernization of the show—really, if they were going to change anything, why not reevaluate the portrayal of mental health instead of throwing out curses like a middle schooler trying to sound mature? The modern songs, the out-of-place scenes from Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar, the whole thing felt like it was put together by someone who’d never had to fight to be recognized for their work. It’s Shakespeare at the Globe; does it actually need to be good? People will attend no matter the quality of the storytelling or the actors' ability. To me, the show felt like a first draft. Why did they make the stylistic choices they did? Were the progressively more modern outfits meant as the situation worsened meant to symbolize the downfall of modern society? Were they an unsuccessful attempt to make the Shakespearean content more accessible to teenagers? Was replacing the graveyard scene with jokes about how long the show lasted too on the nose? I honestly have no idea. The

moment it ended, I raced out of the theater, running to the tube and leaping up the six ﬂights of stairs to my hotel room. I imagined I’d never watch something like Hamlet again. I also think I’ll never forget it.

Vacations are the sum of their mistakes. In my experience, the details of the good memories fade away, but the bad moments stick with you. Take our first day in London, where we showed up at the hotel on a Saturday morning, jetlagged and barely rested, and the hotel staff told us that our rooms weren’t ready yet. I didn’t know anyone then; did anyone know anyone, at that point? I set off on my own. Scared of getting lost on the Tube, I walked for an hour to do a

competitive CrossFit workout. I remember lying in a pool of my own sweat, my legs shaking, my body so spent I could barely move, and having to walk back to the hotel. I resolved not to leave the room until dinner. Dinner was at eight o’clock at night. It lasted three hours. And then we had to be up at eight am the next morning. I still remember stumbling down the six flights of stairs to get to breakfast, wondering if I’d accidentally topple off the stairway I was so tired. For the rest of the trip, I would bring it up whenever possible. Why on earth would we plan our first two days like that, with so little allowance for jetlag? Who had thought of that? Why had they made it required? We’re college students; we’re known for sleeping in! I was enraged, amazed, and passionate. It seemed like such a bizarre choice to me. And yet, I think I’ll remember more from those first two days than I will from the rest of the week.

always interesting. It forces you to comprehend just how big the world is. But traveling somewhere new is primarily about people. All the waiting at the airport, the waiting at the restaurant, the tour I barely remember because I was so tired—they weren’t my happiest memories, but I do believe they bonded our group. Nothing brings people together quite like shared misery. I think my biggest disappointment with Hamlet was feeling like everyone else loved it. When someone suggested we format our book based on the show's structure, my initial feeling was loneliness. Was I the only one who’d seen so many ﬂaws in that performance? Maybe part of traveling in a group is seeing through other people’s eyes. I hated Hamlet, but I’m not the only one who saw it. I don’t want to give Hamlet too much credit (did I mention I hated it?), but it was the kind of experience we couldn’t have gotten anywhere else. For better or worse, it’s special. It’s ours. And I’m grateful we all got the opportunity to experience something unique together.

They weren’t my happiest days; Thursday, the day after Hamlet, was the happiest day of my vacation. It was the first day I spent on my own, biking through Hyde Park and wandering around the area. I read by the lake and ate the best meal of my trip—a honeycomb-flavored ice cream cone—while I walked to Kensington Palace. It was a happy day, a good day, but I doubt I’ll remember it in two years, let alone when I’m eighty. There was something special about those first two days. We were all jetlagged and exhausted, but excited to be there. The whole week was ahead of us. I like to think that the heart of a vacation is the group you travel with. Seeing new places is

No Tie Required: The Accessibility of High Art in London Weston Curnow

Singing Irving Berlin’s 1935 chart topper, Top Hat, White Tie, and Tails, Fred Astaire tells his listeners how he prepares to go out for the evening, presumably to one of those illustrious venues of London, Anglophile, and part-time London dweller as he was. Astaire sings of brushing off his tailcoat, polishing shirt studs, and preparing his shirt front. By the time Top Hat, White Tie, and Tails, hit the music market, the evening dress described by Astaire had become the defacto social uniform for any male concertgoer. Though less rigid, a similar level of adherence to the social uniform was expected of women. Despite only singing of clothing, one should see Astaire’s list of uniform components as a vehicle for wider social commentary. In describing the required social uniform, Astaire illuminates the entire music-going philosophy of the era. Concertgoing was a see-and-be-seen social event required of anyone with societal aspirations; music is second nature at the evening pageants. At its height, the see-and-be-seen nature of music going in London, and the Western world moreover, began to affect theater architecture. Best evidenced by the London Coliseum, the most expensive seats in the house turn out to have the worst view of the stage – of course, the performance is not what one pays for. The illustrious box seats are merely pediments upon which one may showcase their societal feathers. When Richard Wagner suggested that lights be

dimmed during performances in the mid 19th century, he sent European society into a flutter – how then was one to see and be seen? Of course, the irony is not lost on me that today, most people don’t even know what a shirt front or shirt studs are. I wouldn’t have without the assistance of the internet, or to be clearer, save for the encyclopedic knowledge of oddities amassed by a resultantly solitary middle schooler. Though the old grand nights of the opera may look appealing, especially when chronicled by writers like Henry James and Edith Wharton, the truth is that the democratization of the concert hall has been a positive development for the Western world, especially for people like you and me. When planning for London, I figured I would try to attend a concert once a day, at considerable damage to my

Cadogan Hall- Haydn’s Farwell Symphony

per diem. In anticipating the experience, especially the Opera which I planned on seeing, I made sure to take proper precautions – that is, I had my tuxedo dry-cleaned and borrowed my grandfather’s cummerbund. Though I laughed when Dr. Klayder told the story of how one of her students was disappointed when he realized that London, far from its Dickensian reputation, is actually as modern and global as any other city, I now realize that I had fallen for the same sort of romantic anachronism, though my vision was more Edwardian in flavor. Upon attending my first concert whilst in London, Handel’s L'Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato at the Barbican center, my conception of concertgoing in London as a real-life Vanity Fair cartoon quickly fell away with the opening of the auditorium doors. Far from the march of penguins, I discovered school children still in uniform, elderly people attended by their nurses, families with children in their tennis shoes, and couples of all types. To my surprise and great excitement, concertgoing in London is an egalitarian enterprise – no tie required. This

discovery rekindled a concern of mine – we, as Americans, have a fundamental misconception of high art and accessibility. While in London I heard Hydn’s 45th 46th and 47th symphonies, Handel’s L'Allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato, Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutti, Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Bach’s Fuge No. 2 in CMinor, Double Concerto, and other works, Elgar’s Symphony No. 1, Purcell’s Music for Queen Mary’s Funeral, among other pieces lost to memory’s folly – all of which I never paid more than 18 pounds a ticket for. To listen to the craft of doctoral holding performers who have dedicated their lives to their instrument perform for upwards of three hours at a time all for less than 18 pounds is cultural accessibility at its best. Of course, accessibility doesn’t stop at the concert hall’s curb – London is noted the world over for the service it has done for humankind by showing its priceless human, and non-human, treasures from around the world for free. London’s museum culture is truly unmatched. Additionally, one doesn’t need to be present in the concert hall or the museum to enjoy the high cultural achievements of humankind for little to no cost. Through the industry of the postwar visionaries, the UK now benefits from classical music, discussions of literature, and all other sorts of artistic examination broadcast upon the air via the BBC by radio, and by television. It is not difficult to see the result of a low barrier of entry to high culture for oneself – many of the conversations I struck up with strangers, though rare in England, related to art and culture.

The Barbican Center- Handel’s L’allegro, il Penseroso ed il Moderato

The box seats of the London Coliseum- Cosi Fan Tutti So then, I ask, how much does it cost to go to a Chief’s game? Different strokes for different folks, of course, but let us first reassess what is wholly exclusive and what is accessible. I have found that one of the cheapest evenings a KU student can have is an evening at The Nelson and, using one’s student ID, a $10 ticket to the symphony. Perhaps the lesson gleaned from London’s extraordinarily accessible art culture isn’t that we must completely alter our American system, but rather, that we must reframe what art and entertainment we consider inaccessible, and gatekept by the wealthy few, and what is open and available for the common person’s edification. In the end, I never did get to wear my tuxedo, though I believe the atmosphere of Pizza Express may have called for it, but, all in all, I think I, and the art culture which I presumed it was required for, is better off for it.

Lip Filler

If you’re reading this, you’re probably my mom or a wallflower in some future iteration of the London Review, thumbing through these pages while your peers chortle about design layout. Anyway, while I have you, in 2022 there were lots of Londoners, maybe ⅓ of them, who had lip fillers. Below I’ve attached a composite picture.

—Marley Hays

All of London’s a Stage. By: Harry Swartz

Across 8 days and 96 total miles of meandering through ancient streets dotted with ultra-modern structures and relics of the past, the theatricality of London stood out to me. Not just around the Globe or the countless stages of the West End, but on the tube, in the hotels, in front of the palaces, and in the pubs. The performed pomp and pageantry of a symbolic monarchy. The performance of wealth in Lamborghinis parked behind Rolls Royces parked in front of multi-million pound flats. Empire performed by the presentation of treasures “borrowed” from far-away colonies, strategically staged in grandiose museums in the heart of the capital. An illusion of security performed by soldiers in funny costumes and submachine gun-wielding police protecting their protagonists behind stately stone curtains.

London is one of the world’s greatest stages, and for a little over a week we were merely a few dozen of its millions of players. Here’s to hoping that one day we all are recast in an encore performance.

The Shard enters the scene from Tower Bridge.

Popping in and out of the Underground and weaving through packed throngs, you understand that the city’s cast list is long and diverse. Mementos and souvenirs of all shapes and sizes idolize and immortalize the star of the show since 1953, while other key characters are just as likely to be represented as caricatures in the tabloids. Bit players pull pints, air their grievances in front of seats of power, and take smoke breaks in the city’s backstage mews, while world leaders, entertainers, athletes, and oligarchs play fleeting cameo roles in famous halls and Michelin-starred restaurants. Some of the actors can only be heard- reminding you to mind the gap, while others’ presence can only be seen in chiseled, silent monuments. Travelers from around the world provide an adulatory audience, though more often than not they find themselves being pulled into the thick of the plot. Shakespearean backdrop at Bankside.

C.R.E.A.M. By: Max Lillich

$1.31 as of April 6th 2022. This number was one of the most important for me throughout the London Review. As the Wu-Tang Clan once said Cash Rules Everything Around Me (C.R.E.A.M), this mantra would become more and more true for me as I ventured through London. A British Pound being equivalent to $1.31 is an interesting predicament because the price points are deceptively similar to what you would see in the United States. This predicament is even further compounded by the prices in London being higher then what would be seen in Kansas making it inch closer to the appearance of a 1:1 exchange rate. The exchange predicament would cause the 1.31 multiplier to constantly be in the back of my mind with me sometimes (willingly) forgetting about it. My constant thinking about the exchange rate would be my first run in with the British version of C.R({ing}.E.A.M. My woes with the exchange rate were not yet over, there would be a 2nd encounter. The setting this time would be Metro Bank. While walking around Kensington on the first day I saw a giant red M and thought: “what better place to get some quid than the friendly neighborhood Metro Bank”. My working theory is that being an American and seeing the giant red M led to some internal psychological association with the American symbol 2nd to only the flag and maybe the eagle, the golden arches. However, Metro Bank sure did not make me feel like I was lovin it. I attempted to exchange $80, but first they needed to see my passport. I initially had no issue with this, then 5 minutes went by with the teller flipping through my passport and making notes of everything and asking me numerous questions. It was a more intense process

than going through customs to get into England. Then finally I was given 52 pounds, if you remember the 1.31 number from earlier you can do some quick math to realize I got screwed. 52 times 1.31 is about $68 meaning Metro Bank took a $12 American fee. Yet again cash ruled my thoughts as I walked back to the hotel seeing all the ATMs and Forex places advertising no fee which for all I know could have been another trap waiting for me. Towards the end of the trip, while I was feeling somewhat accustomed to the Pound and ready to tackle some more transactions, I went to the Camden area. Currency took on a whole new meaning as soon as I got off the tube. The first thing I did was go into a stall next to the tube stop to look at a “Rolex” the vendor came up to me and said it was 150 pounds, I countered with 20. After some back and forth he eventually dropped to 80 and I was at 40, after my refusal to budge at 40 he eventually came down to 65. We stalemated at 40 and 65 and I walked off while listening to the vendor call me some very nice names. Bartering was not limited to that stall, nearly every place was negotiable including the food stalls. As you walk through the food stalls there is shouting and samples galore as the vendors offer lower and lower prices. For example, my dinner which was two main courses and two sides started at 12 pounds and then eventually became 6. This process was liberating, what had previously seemed so static and out of my control now felt like the tyranny of fixed prices was being overthrown. Undeniably cash still ruled everything around me because I was paying for items in Camden, but I was much happier with this newfound sense of control and ease.

Underneath the Cobblestone Streets By: Naomi Madu There’s been a lot of digging up going on in the world recently. The rather unsavory pasts of celebrities, politicians, monarchs and even regular people are being thrust into the limelight in a way that cannot be ignored. This is not something we’ve just picked up, but our collective global histories, cultures and identities have always relied on physical and documented sources, hence the constant need for evidence. However, this has become a more contentious issue recently, especially with the re-evaluation of societal hierarchies and systems of power established by European states. Everyone understandably wants their bodies hidden but, as an Igbo proverb dictates, if a deceitful person buries himself, one of his arms will stick out. Less morally complex secrets have been left to rot underneath the weight of London’s majestic façade, but left all the same. An economy of crisis narratives is evidently the space for the Clink Prison Museum and London Dungeon to thrive. The former sits on ground previously occupied by one of London’s most infamous prisons, housing whores, heretics and other, heinous, characters. The London Dungeon, located at the otherwise, cheerful and family-friendly Southbank, takes visitors through a brief (and severely skewed) reenactment of the bloody, gory days of London. While the Dungeon doesn’t quite mince words as its actors bring the stories of torture and treason amongst others to life, it was altogether a fun show and despite moving through lifelike sets, it was almost as if I was watching the acts from my seat. This is not to say it was bad, if anything it was a walk in the

park. I love horror, adrenaline and gore and tend to appreciate this darkness in entertainment, so I was waiting to be absolutely terriﬁed. After all, this is an attraction I’d been dying to experience for over 10 years.

Pictured: The site of the Clink Prison.

Pictured: A sign at the Clink Prison Museum.

The rooms were all dark, pitch black actually. It made me nervous especially as I had no one to hold onto as we shuﬄed through the corridors. The story began with the Gunpowder Plot. It was fun to revisit my mental British history archives as I followed the actors while they delivered their carefully scripted performance. The show was delightfully cheeky and a lot more participatory than I could have imagined. Unsuspecting audience members were forced to reveal their names, questioned and in one instance, tortured, much to the delight of the remaining audience members who laughed at the Torturer’s lewd and suggestive jokes. Each act took us deeper into the heart of London’s messy past and with each location swap, I endeavored to stay close enough to the front of the group to avoid any well-timed scares. I also tried to position myself strategically, so I would have a better chance at catching the attention of the actors. I enjoyed the torture show just as much as the Black Plague show, but ultimately they were far too mild for me.

The Jack the Ripper and Sweeney Todd shows were my favorite. Both built up a volatile level of suspense that was cathartically released in bursts of smoke, ﬂashes of light and the audience’s own screams. It was too vivid for words and too cinematic to believe in its historical backgrounds. Moving from show to show was immersive, the actors were very animated and the production design was impressive, but at the end of the day it was just a show and it was very hard to separate that from the stories.

I say this because I binge-watched 6 seasons of Game of Thrones within a few weeks and moved on to its more modern, less-shocking cousin, Peaky Blinders, to watch its ﬁrst 4 seasons in equally quick succession.

My fondness for history museums can be directly attributed to the way their curation can tell a good story, still, having not been in one for a while, I was not particularly elated to be visiting. I at first cast mildly curious glances at exhibits and placards then found myself reading more intently and visualizing their stories clearly. The museum design was perfect and I appreciated the cohesion in some sections and chronological sequence in others. The low lighting, chilling music and sound effects complemented the themes perfectly and while at times they felt like overkill (there was a crying sound that genuinely terrified me even after I realized it was fake), I think they

Pictured: Artefacts reclaimed from the prison

The London Dungeon was not designed to reﬂect and inform but maybe the Clink was.

Pictured: A description of a torture device.

influenced my receptive nature, because suddenly being in the museum meant so much more to me. The characters of these stories didn’t all have the agency to share their perspectives and experiences in a manner of their choosing but I thought of them all the same. A first-person account of a woman ostracized and unjustly framed for crimes she didn’t commit after rejecting her employer’s advances really set the scene for me and provided a strong sense of awareness of the societal norms of the time. I thought of the prostitutes who entertained men in the vilified neighborhoods of Southwark and how I was probably standing on the same grounds their bodies decomposed in, contorted to make space for new corpses.

correlation with the prison grounds and architectural structure was even harder to follow. Its design was pleasantly disturbing however, and I was all too eager to move on. The torture section was deliciously gory, and left vivid images emblazoned on my brain. I also felt that it was detailed enough in providing ample context on the usage of the different devices and even anecdotes on moments when things had gone wrong. However, nothing was as haunting as the signage near the exit that listed some of the more famous prisoners of The Clink and a phrase remembering all the unnamed prisoners and victims who had suffered cruel and unusual punishment. The message presented a conundrum regarding the memorialization or fetishization of occasions such as this and as I left the museum I wondered if visitors like myself reflect on the unsavory details of what they have experienced with a willingness to learn from history and break the cycle or if attractions like this could ever dig deep enough to do something more than entertain.

Pictured: A torture device.

With all the stories of political and religious dissidents being targeted, I was putting together pieces of London’s monarchies and internal conﬂicts in a new way. It was dense and the brief exhibit on the Great Fire of London in

Pictured: An alleyway at night.

London: Then and Now. Mady Edmonds

Street Musicians. If you had asked me two years ago where I thought I would be at this moment, it most deﬁnitely would not have been back in London. With the end of our 2020 trip muddled by the COVID pandemic’s beginning, our future was uncertain. There was no way we could predict how this pandemic would progress, but I convinced myself it would be much longer than two years before I would be able to travel back to London. That being said, I’ve compiled a list of comparisons of my travels back in 2020 and now.

The amount of talent in London is unparalleled and displayed on practically every corner. Musicians crowded the underground back in 2020, and I’m happy to say that many of them still come out to play for spare coins and share their talent with travelers. While COVID may have decreased their numbers, slowly but surely, they are coming out like morning glory sensing the sunshine once again. Whenever I saw a musician, I tried to spare any coins I could to show solidarity and hopefully say, “you’ve got this; keep going.”

Walking on the “Right” Side. This one didn’t change much since my last visit, but it confused me, all the same, both times. It’s one thing to drive on the left side of the road, but walking too? Come on, guys. They had many lovely direction signs on the grounds to remind you when you were in the wrong, which I didn’t happen to fully notice until probably the second full day we were there. Despite all eﬀorts, I did end up in the habit of walking on the left, which has been hard to break upon returning to the United States, where we do things the right way.

Some of the beautiful Borough Market Produce.

Markets.

Exploring the streets of Richmond, still forgetting to walk on the left.

If there’s one thing I was glad to see, it was the many diﬀerent markets bustling with people. I can only imagine the toll that was taken on the various vendors, but it seems like things are getting back to how they were back in March 2020. I tried my best to make conversation with any shop owner I could, and it was apparent they were also relieved to be back to a somewhat normal state. Despite

remaining open throughout the past two years, the number of customers they could reach declined drastically. In the words of one shop owner, “now is the time to reconnect with our neighbors over one thing that draws us all together -- food.”

concerned with other experiences that I wouldn’t be able to get at home. This time around, it wasn’t mastering the art of drinking but instead searching for one speciﬁc cider in Oxford that I fell in love with the last time I enjoyed it at The Turf.

Pubs. This time around, it was a goal of mine to hit up as many pubs as I could ﬁnancially manage while on our trip. The atmosphere of a pub on any night of the week somehow brings calmness, ending the day on a good note. Whether it’s casual conversations, social drinking, or pub food, there’s a comfort in sitting in the corner and watching those around you. I’ve always been told the best way to learn about anything is to immerse yourself in it, which I wanted to do this time around. The pub almost seemed like a refuge from the world outside.

One of many delicious pub meals.

Alcoholic Drinks. England is one of the many countries with a drinking age of eighteen, which I enjoyed the last time I came as a nineteen-year-old. I remember spending way too much money on drinks wherever we went, purely because I could. Now that I am a seasoned drinker at the ripe age of twenty-one, I drink much less. Most of the time, it was a nice glass of wine or a cider, but never anything too intense. While my love for gin and tonic grew the last time I was here, I was more

Having a cider with friends at the Hereford Arms.

World News. Obviously, back in 2020, the biggest news was the emerging virus that would become the COVID-19 pandemic. There were national press conferences and emails on the likelihood of us getting to return home, which was enough to rattle anyone while traveling abroad. While I thought it couldn’t get much crazier, I was proven wrong rather fantastically. This time around, the news was that Russia had begun the invasion of Ukraine and that they were going to war with the world, waiting with bated breath to see who would make the ﬁrst move. There was almost as much uncertainty this time around, but at least we know what we are dealing with at the moment.

Visiting Kensington Palace on my ﬁrst London Review.

Sightseeing. The beneﬁt of having already been to London was not feeling the need to cram absolutely everything into one trip (which, if you were wondering, is pretty much impossible). Instead of being pressured to see as much as possible like I was last time, I could sit and think of what I truly wanted to see this time around. The beauty of traveling, in my opinion, is letting the trip guide you. Dr. Doug Crawford-Parker sent us a great quote during one of our ﬁrst days that summed up my attitude during this study abroad experience -- “Real travel requires a maximum of unscheduled wandering, for there is no other way of discovering surprises and marvels, which, as I see it, is the only good reason for not staying at home.” - Alan Watts.

Energy. It may just be me getting older, but I struggled with ﬁnding the energy to constantly give 100% during the week we were there. After almost two years of decreased activity and socialization, it’s no wonder our social batteries were thoroughly unprepared for the shock they were about to go through. It seems like the last time I was able to do so much was the last time in London, before the woes of the world became so apparent to me and my generation. The life of a hermit doesn’t prepare you to ﬁnally come back out of your shell, which was apparent this time around.

the case? Unfortunately, it wasn’t. After a year and a half of having online school, one thing that brought about a huge shock was entering a graduate program at KU’s School of Pharmacy. Unlike little naive ﬁrst-year Mady, I had seven exams to look forward to once we got back to the United States. I could have been irresponsible and put everything oﬀ until the Monday we got back, but instead, I was a dedicated graduate student who did a little bit of studying every day so that the next two weeks wouldn’t be absolute hell. Was it still one of the worst exam weeks of my life? Absolutely.

Culture. COVID has been rough for everyone; there’s no denying that. England had a much stricter lockdown than the US ever had, and it lasted for much longer as well. Despite everything that the city and people went through, it still felt like London. The same cultural delicacies that I so enjoyed freshman year were still ever-present now as a junior. The mutually understood silence on the tube, family games of football in Hyde Park, a good cuppa, and much more were all thriving. To see London then and now is truly a testament to the longevity and endurance a culture can have when mutual hardships bind people together.

School. Yes, I know, this is supposed to be a trip where schoolwork is the absolute last thing you should think about. Was that

Embracing London while on a tour.

“The only fence against the world is a thorough knowledge of it.” - John Locke 48

English Sports Culture: A Kansas Perspective.

By: Jet Semrick

I was born and raised on Kansas City sports. During the summer, I rarely miss a Royals broadcast. In the fall, I never miss a Chiefs game. While in college, I have always been ready to cheer on the Jayhawks. This year I found myself in a similar situation watching the Jayhawks dance through the NCAA Basketball Tournament from restaurants and pubs in London. I have an unfortunate travel trend of my teams making championship runs while I am away from home. In 2020, I watched the Kansas City Chiefs win a super bowl from a hotel lobby in Austin, Texas. In 2022, I watched Kansas' tournament run from my phone in London and concluded the tournament at a sports bar in Harrisonburg, Virginia. While a challenge to ﬁnd streams in foreign cities, my experience in London allowed me to learn and appreciate the sports culture of the United Kingdom. While hopping between pubs across London, I noticed each had a rugby ball plastered with the Guinness harp in the window or above the bar. I soon found out from the crowds of fans in every pub that our spring break trip happened to intersect with the Six Nations Rugby Tournament. The competition is an annual round robin featuring the national teams from England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, France, and Italy. As you can imagine, the tournament is sponsored by Guinness and is often watched with a couple pints.

the high stakes rugby matches. For the sports fans of London watching rugby is an all day affair that can require reserving a table from noon until close. I was ultimately unable to find a Kansas pub in London, but my mate Max and I were able to find a spot to watch the Six Nations at a pub in Wimbledon. In preparation for the match between France and England, I began asking a local we sat with to explain the game to me. In between, sips and cheers I slowly began to understand the details and complicated rules of rugby that make the game interesting. My simple explanation (apologies to rugby fans) is that rugby is a combination of American football mixed with a few rules from soccer. As the afternoon continued, I acclimated easily to the local atmosphere. There are two simple rules to follow: 1) never have an empty pint and 2) cheer when the local fans around you cheer. Even though I was unable to watch the Jayhawks win tournament games with my peers in Lawrence, I was welcomed with open arms into every pub I walked into in London. While the culture is different, watching sports still revolves around friends, good drinks, and greasy bar snacks. On days when Kansas played I made sure to wear my Jayhawks baseball cap and was relieved to always at some point during the day get a "Rock Chalk!" from a passerby on a street 5.000 miles away from Lawrence.

While I was worried about ﬁnding a spot to watch Kansas Basketball, locals were busy booking tables to watch

The Vagina Museum

By: Anne Kim & Sophia Misle

ophia and I shared countless nights where we stayed up to chat about our respective days and the adventures we had each experienced. On one of those nights, we were pondering on what to do during our last few days in London. Initially, as a joke, I remembered Drake talking about how London had a Vagina Museum, and I mentioned it to Sophia. But the more we started talking, our curiosity increased, and after a quick Google search, Sophia booked a reservation for Saturday at 4 pm. I booked my ticket a bit later in the week after realizing that I wanted to join her. It almost seemed like fate that the museum was re-opening on our last day in London. So here we are, on our last day in London before the last group dinner, at The Vagina Museum.

Our individual experiences & reflection: Anne

The Vagina Museum exceeded my expectations in terms of what I was expecting. 50

To be frank, I don’t even know what I was expecting. The small, hidden room in Bethnal Green provided a gateway for me to learn more about my womanhood and femininity. First, aside from the museum itself, I felt so empowered being in a room with other women as we walked through the history of vaginas and the menstrual cycle together. It was such a friendly, inviting, warm, and uplifting environment. The amount of information that was presented before me was overwhelming in the best way possible. Here are a couple of facts that I found most interesting: 1. Underwear didn’t really exist until the 1930s, so women wore long kneelength shorts or nothing at all, meaning that they bled freely when on their period. 2. Stigma surrounding periods dates back to the Middle Ages and were considered a “curse” in Europe. For example, one belief was that “period blood was such a powerful toxin that if it touched the penis it could turn a man mad”. 3. Sometimes, sphagnum moss was used as a menstrual product. Sphagnum moss can hold up to 20 times its weight in moisture.

I was also thankful that the museum addressed how women and marginalized communities often experience feelings of being undermined and overlooked in a medical setting. I hope to integrate this perspective into my future as a practicing physician, remaining mindful of all patients while serving as an advocate for minority groups. What impacted me most was a section at the end of the museum for women to write about what “the future of periods will look like”. I will copy some of the quotes below:

simply a necessity for a natural process that occurs in the body. Side story: this museum was in a hidden area and I met several women who struggled to search for it (we were all lost). Upon entry into the museum, I started chatting with a woman and it turns out her ex-boyfriend was from Kansas and attended KU. What a small world.

Sophia

I had the privilege of studying abroad in Iceland last summer where I visited The Icelandic Phallological Museum.

“Oh my gosh, my journey will now be complete!” I said to Anne after she had mentioned visiting The Vagina Museum which caused us to instantly fall into a fit of giggles. “Free products for all” “Sex on your period is OK” “Not having to hide your tampon up your sleeve when going to the toilet in public. WHO CARES!” “No one will have to whisper ‘I’m on my period’” I hope as a society we can aim to fight any social stigmas surrounding periods, normalize the menstrual cycle, and make menstrual products attainable for all. No one should struggle to gain access to a product that is

One of our class discussions in Iceland was about the difference between how bodies are perceived in different parts of the world. In the United States, sexualization of bodies is prevalent in media, magazine ads and more. Most of us giggled when we found out The Penis Museum existed. We discussed how a museum like this would most likely be in Las Vegas with a very sexual undertone. However, The Penis Museum was more focused on science and anatomy and I was expecting The Vagina Museum to be very similar.

rubber and oil cloth. In my opinion, pads are already uncomfortable but having to wear this apron sounds like a nightmare. This product was claimed to help keep women “on the move”. Today, women can play sports, wear pants, and have their own line of credit. I

My ADHD makes it difficult for me to keep an attention span, especially at a museum where there are lots of distractions, but I wanted to read every word and take in every detail the main exhibition, “Periods: A brief history” had to offer. I learned 1 in 7 women feel uncomfortable talking about menstruation. Personally, I keep many tampons in my backpack for the fear of having to ask someone in a hushed voice if they happen to have one. Why have people who menstruate been taught for many generations their period is something to be ashamed of? People who menstruate have the power to birth another human life, a complicated but scientific miracle. However, the ancient Egyptians thought the cure for sagging breasts was to smear menstrual blood on your chest, so as the exhibit said, “certainly they did not think it was all bad”. I have always been grateful to have access to menstrual products as period poverty is a problem in many areas of the world. However, I have never considered how lucky we are to have modern inventions during that time of the month. Menstrual aprons were made in the late 19th and early 20th century in the United States. These aprons were made from waterproof materials such as cloth covered 52

would not even have been able to go on this study abroad trip because I would not be able to go to university if gender roles were the same as they were during the time of the menstrual apron. We still have many hurdles to overcome as a society when it comes to gender inequality. According to a side exhibition about gynecology, 84% of women have experienced times when they, or someone they know, were not listened to by healthcare professionals. I am one of these people. I had to see four doctors at three different clinics over six months before I was cured. It took one doctor who did not overlook my symptoms and concerns and made me feel valued to finally resolve the problem. This exhibit on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean made me feel as though I was not alone.

I wish all people of all genders could visit this museum. The issues facing women and marginalized communities cannot be resolved unless all of us do our part to educate ourselves and help those in need. ________________________________ Institutions like The Vagina Museum are necessary because gynecological anatomy is a part of science but is somehow surrounded with shame. Gynecology can be a taboo subject for many people due to a lack of education and understanding. The Vagina Museum provides a safe space with scientifically accurate information to break biases and exercise critical thinking. The Vagina Museum provided these statistics: · 52% of people in the UK can’t label the vagina on a diagram of the vulva (YouGov, 2019) · 26.7% of 25–29-year-olds in Britain are too embarrassed to receive a cervical screening (Jo’s Trust, 2017) · There has been a 500% increase in labiaplasties on the NHS between 2002 and 2012 (RCOG, 2012) · 44% of parents use euphemisms like “fairy” to refer to their child’s genitals instead of the correct anatomical terminology. Only 1% use the term ‘vulva’ (Eve Appeal, 2018) · Transphobic hate crime reports have quadrupled over the past five years in the UK (BBC News, 2020) What do you think these numbers look like in the United States? How can we make our world a more inclusive place?

On the Topic of Bodily Orifices Drake Dugan A Brief Description of Dentistry in London during the early 1800s In a world where seemingly everyone adores the dentist, it may be hard to imagine a time when such a humble, yet necessary, craft was overrun with ignorant, illiterate, perfidious, mountebanks and charlatans. Despite being the heart of the largest empire in history, London had some serious issues with their crowns… the enamel kind. The main issue with their dental care was that it was not treated as a necessary profession. Barbers, blacksmiths, and businessmen all tried their hand at dental surgery. Nothing was sanitized, hell they didn’t even know germs existed. The first anesthetic wouldn't be utilized in England for another twenty years. You got a toothache? Well you better head down to your local barber, his name is likely plastered upon the wall with a myriad of human teeth and his living room/ office is filled with advertisements for his special formula of dentifrice (however it's likely nothing more than chalk and urine). While you are there you can get a haircut, a quick shave, perhaps a sprinkling of French cologne? After that, the “surgeon” will use a claw-like “dental key” to grasp the troublesome tooth, using your gums and jaw as the fulcrum until the tooth finally releases. If that fails the other end of the dental key would be used to smash the tooth out of it’s socket (I am intrigued to see this elegant technique performed, any volunteers?). There are even stories of people having walnut size pieces of jaw bone extracted along with the tooth (or teeth… whoops) during these graceful procedures. Luckily, the busy streets outside and the loud music being blasted from the barber shop has done an exquisite job drowning out your cries of anguish. Now comes the fun part: pray you do not fall victim to one of the leading causes of death at the time… infection!

Watt’s Legacy Radhia Abdirahman Having flown into London twenty-four hours before the rest of the group, I had the luxury of an extra few hours to get over my jetlag. Prior to touching down in London, I knew I wanted to see the Science Museum; I decided to duck out as my peers crashed on the couch in the hotel lobby. The Science Museum is a four-story building adjacent to Imperial College London with exhibits focusing on medicine, economics, math, astronomy, and numerous other areas in STEM. I was especially interested in visiting the museum to see the Stephen Hawking memorial and learn about the history of medicine in the UK. This museum trip was different from any other I’ve had; this time, I was completely alone and had the luxury of taking my time to read each and every panel I was interested in. Usually, when I visit art galleries and museums, I’m accompanied by at least one other person and need to adjust my pace to match theirs. This time I was free to go back and forth as I wished; it allowed me to really soak in everything around me. On the very first floor of the museum was a huge, steam-powered, engine-apparatus thing. I remember reading about how revolutionary this invention was to the modern world and how without it Britain wouldn’t be where it is today. The article also barely mentioned the slave labor used to build it. This part of the piece was integrated in such a way that if you’d skimmed the article, you would’ve missed it-- I almost did. About ten steps after the giant steam-powered engine was an entire exhibit dedicated to James Watt, the

“Founder of the Industrial Revolution.” His steam engines pumped the mines and drove the many factories. He was known to have significantly shaped the world we live in today-- however, he was heavily involved in trafficking enslaved Africans. The exhibit boldly discussed his involvement in the slave trade. Still, it continued to include however statements, almost to justify his heinous crimes because of his “transformational contribution” to society. Having learned about James Watt briefly in high school, I was shocked that I missed an entire part of the story. The narrative of Watt was curated in such a way that it briefly talked about slavery but not so much as to take away from his significant contributions to society. After viewing this exhibit, I could not help myself from thinking about the slave labor and crimes behind the development of the items kept in the Science Museum. I thought about the abuse the African women faced from doctors when testing new gynecological methods-- influencing ones that are implemented today-because enslaved women were thought to not feel pain the same way as their white counterparts. Now, these practitioners and inventors, such as Watt, are memorialized with various portraits and engravings sold widely, promoting the virtues of hard work. These memorials fail to capture the whole story-- they fail to mention the ways in which colonial expansion and oppression gave way to the power and influence these individuals gained.

No Matter Where You Go, There You Are Zach Green

Traveling is an escape from the troubles of our everyday life. For that sweet, brief period of time, we get to step away from the stress and worries that hang over us. Vacation is how we get to experience new perspectives and expand our mindsets, making us richer in knowledge. It’s meant to be the refreshing break we need, but for some of us, our troubles follow. I used to think I was a carefree traveler. Apart from 2020, I’ve ﬂown multiple times a year, every year, since I was young. I’ve gone halfway around the globe (in both directions!) only seeing travel as something you should enthusiastically jump into and enjoy one hundred percent. That changed on this trip, when running to Europe wasn’t far enough to escape my problems. In fact, I packed my problems with me.

school in my day-to-day life, I was desperate for a laid-back, relaxed vacation. Upon reflection, I think it was this betrayal of my own desire—the desire to experience as much of London as I could—that sowed the seeds for my subsequent listlessness. I brushed off this discomfort and resolved to finish my plans later. I talked to others to distract myself, but still, I began to feel a sense of awareness of how my dual desires conflicted at their core. How could I possibly have a relaxed trip if I was running all over London? The thought of the trip draining me beyond my limits filled me with discomfort. It may only be touring and sightseeing, but it required a mental and physical rigor I did not possess. Realizing this brought my

I had been enthusiastically anticipating this trip. London is one of the most historically rich, culturally diverse, and architecturally fascinating cities in the world, and I was ready to experience all of it. I had marked points of interest in nearly every neighborhood in London, and as I waited in the Charlotte airport, I pieced together a rough smattering of plans as my official itinerary. But as I got closer to finalizing it, my enthusiasm began to wane, and I couldn’t bring myself to finish it. The soft, pastel colors of the calendar app were starting to appear bold, taking up large chunks of the days we had. With the intense structure of work and

anxiety to its physical manifestation as a gnawing, chilling void in my stomach. Knowing that ignoring it would only make it worse, I separated myself from the others. I’ve always thought that the semi-sterile nature of airports was soothing, in a sense. The long walkways provide you with plenty of time to wander and ponder, provided you aren’t running to catch a flight. As I strolled down the terminal, making casual note of the people and businesses around me, as one does when there is no particular end goal in mind, I tried to reconcile the differences between my two goals, trying to weigh which I favored more. Do I give in to a more easygoing nature and allow myself to leave my plans as they are, unfinished and likely ill-plotted? Or do I keep myself on a regiment guaranteed to leave me satisfied, but likely to leave me exhausted with a midterm less than 48 hours after I land in Kansas City? It dawned on me that this was the first time I had ever gone on a trip that relied on me to make the plans. In the past I always had my mother—who works for a travel company and for a time created their itineraries—or a group I was bound to, giving me no liberty to create my own schedule. This fact both relieved me and impressed upon me a large feeling of importance. A part of me worried I might not fulfill my own expectations, or that I would leave myself disappointed, or that this ball of anxiety resting in my stomach would not dissipate, or any number of other concerns. I reached the end of the hallway and turned around. It was almost as if I had found the first knot one must pull a cord through to untangle a larger mess of wires, the way turning around at the end of the hallway changed the way I thought. I came upon

several realizations: The first was that there was no need to decide upon the whole manner now when I had a seven-hour flight to rest and the first day to plan. This led me to the thought that much like every day could be planned or spontaneous, so could every trip, and there was no need to define this trip as either when it could be both. There were no expectations I had to rise to meet other than my own desires on any given day. The cold weight of anxiety finally lifted as I settled on the root of the problem. I decided that each day, I would do whatever I wanted on that given day. If it was relaxed, I could rest and recharge throughout the trip. If I wanted to explore, I already had a rough sketch of plans to work from. I realized a moment later that this way, I would be able to sleep in almost every day, and my worries that I would be drained eased. I was optimistic once again. I stayed in high spirits for the rest of the day, despite a hellish flight that prohibited any sleep. A long customs line and an even longer wait for the bus could

have been a perfect recipe to bring about irritation, but I was so excited to be in London that nothing could break my mood. I felt on top of the world as we pulled up to our hotel, though as we got our luggage settled in I could feel the first hints of exhaustion creeping up on me. I checked my phone for the time: 10 A.M. A slow dread began to build as I realized what a challenge it was going to be for me to make it to our 8:30 P.M. dinner without sleeping. Nevertheless, I gave it a valiant effort. Exploring the area around the hotel took on a twofold effort to both remember the path we had taken and not limit myself to one area. I allowed myself to fall back from leading and follow the others I was with, but within a few hours I felt myself trudging along. When the body is physically exhausted, it’s difficult to stay in a positive mood, and I recognized I would soon be past a point that would make me bitter and more hostile. Choosing immediate satisfaction over my attempt to prevent jet lag, I went back to the hotel to wait for my room and rest. The sleep I got on the floor of the hotel lobby was godly; every moment I had my eyes closed felt like I was swimming in an ocean of ambrosia. I ended my first day in London satisfied with my ability to take care of my mental stability, not knowing that less than 48 hours later I would be the opposite.

Trafalgar Square with friends, visited the National Gallery, and found an adorable hole in the wall to eat at. Surely such a perfect day would start the trip oﬀ with a bang and set a precedent for the rest of the week. I went to bed excited to see what I would do the next day. Upon waking on Wednesday, I could immediately tell that the weight I thought I had left in Charlotte had come with me. It felt as if my bones were made of lead; just getting out of bed and dressing took all my energy. A powerful, negative perception of the day was already forming in my mind, whispering to me, ‘the day would be no good, I might as well give up on it now.’ I splashed my face with cold water and went to breakfast, hoping that getting some food and coﬀee would grant me the energy needed to go about the day. It didn’t. Sitting there for nearly an hour, I felt my body pulling me into the chair as I was still wrought with fatigue, despite sleeping for seven hours. Recognizing that it would be hard for me

The next day made me believe my high spirits would last throughout the trip. Taking a walking tour of the city that lasted into the afternoon ﬁlled me with information on the architectural development of the city, history behind some of the most famous buildings in the country, and insight into British culture that scratched my itch for knowledge. After it ﬁnished, I attended the world’s largest St. Patrick’s Day celebration in

wrapped up in my mind. I needed to ﬁrmly plant myself in the physical world.

to enjoy anything in this condition, I went back to my room. ‘9:30 A.M. and you’re already miserable. why even try to enjoy it now?’ the thoughts kept whispering to me. They had a point, though. It would be impossible for me to even want to do anything like this. I would have to get out of my head before I could leave the hotel. I looked to my basic self-care needs: had I had food and water? Had I slept? Had I taken my medications? I listened to my body and chose to rest. I slept for three hours. It worked: I no longer felt heavy, but I now felt hollow yet ﬁlled with melancholy. I was in what I call an ambient state of being: A feeling that at any moment I could lose my form and dissipate into the air, as if my mind was not rooted in my physicality. I returned to the basics and endeavored to ﬁnd something to eat for lunch. Remembering the cost of the trip, part of me was bitter I had not left my hotel room until 1 P.M. As I walked the winding streets of London I felt completely

I came upon a plaza I had been to the day we arrived. This was the perfect place to get grounded. I grabbed a sandwich and a coffee and sat outside. I noticed that it was sunny for the first time in three days. I leaned back and soaked up the sun, feeling the warmth on my skin. The wind whipped my hair into a flurry, and a chill went down my spine. I looked around at the people surrounding me, watching them going about their lives. I felt the sandwich sitting in my stomach, appreciating that I was able to make myself so present. My mood started to lift, and I no longer felt ambient as I grounded and made myself present, yet I could not shake off the melancholy. ‘Why must I always feel this way? Why has it followed me, even here?’ I was determined not to let depression dominate my thoughts. I stood up and began walking. I didn’t know where I was walking, but it wasn’t important. I needed to witness life, to see the birds in the trees, the flowers in the ground, to feel the wind that rustled the leaves. My feet, guided without will, brought me to these. As I walked, I began to despair, ‘It’s been years, and not even going to another country could lift me out of a depression. Why is it so hard for my brain to be normal?’ And I realized that my brain was being normal since this was my normal. Months of focusing on the presence of melancholy stopped me from looking past it. My maximum happiness may not reach the peaks others’ do, but it’s still my maximum, and there’s no reason not to celebrate that. I can do the best that I can and be happy with that without comparing my happiness to another’s. I had been walking for nearly two hours and it was close to 4 P.M. Dinner

was in an hour; I had spent the entire day focusing on myself rather than London, but the bitterness I had felt earlier didn’t come. A feeling of shame crept up, but a sudden sense of pride dominated in its place. I had done what I needed to make myself better and prioritized what was best for me. As I started toward the restaurant I sat with the pride and felt it in its totality. When the melancholy returned, I did not despair. I accepted it. Melancholy would consume me again on the trip, but I found there was a quiet, bittersweet beauty in listless wandering. Small joys I would not normally have noticed jumped out at me. Flowers were particularly vibrant and buildings wonderfully complex. The wind would breeze over my skin and remind

me of my physicality, grounding me firmly in the world. Buildings tucked away from the main roads had a distinct appeal to me, knowing I had no intention of finding them in the first place. A wave of contentedness washed over me as I accepted the inseparable sadness as a part of me that I could still enjoy and find solace in.

Rugby Rules By: Max Lillich This is my completely accurate description of rugby rules based on what I saw and heard in pubs while watching the Six Nations Cup. Like most sports whoever has the most points at the end of time wins, not sure about rules for a tie though (hopefully it’s not one of the lame sports that can end in a tie). There are two types of men who play rugby medium muscular build and large muscular build, but if I saw these people on the streets I would probably classify them as large muscular build and unbelievably large muscular build. The goal is to get the ball to the other end zone, or whatever the rugby term for end zone is that I clearly don’t know. The journey to the end zone either ends in a pile up of men pushing in opposite directions or a touchdown. Actually you probably shouldn’t call it a touchdown since that will get a pint glass thrown at your head, I am 80% sure it is called a try. After a touchdown there is something similar to a field goal but it’s kicked more from the side instead of straight on. Some more random information is that people also punt the ball, but I don’t know why this happens. Also sometimes if you are lucky you get to see what looks like a throw-in, but with each team lifting one of their players up as high as they can to catch it, and (you guessed it) I have no idea why this happens. As for point values of different things in rugby, I got nothing for you there, sorry. So, as always it’s root, root for the home team and if they don’t win it’s a shame, unless you are in an Irish pub and it’s England playing Ireland at home since then you will probably get introduced to the British NHS.

The Funny Thing About Art

By: Naomi Madu

’ve learned that I like the idea of museums more than actually visiting and I really can’t stand to hold a conversation about the for the smartest and most ambitious of society, aa treasure trove for intellectuals. It was something I aspired to once, I wanted to learn from the best composition of paintings or the historical context behind their artistic styles. Despite being an artist myself, I don’t really have the patience for the experience. I get tired pretty quickly and there’s usually nowhere to sit so I waft around aimlessly, building up more contempt for the very formal and often, very European artworks. That’s another reason why I was never too fond of museums. I had always seen museums as emblems of cultural capital, places that belonged to the elite and those ordained with immeasurable gifts. It was an attraction and soak up the insight they had to share and then one day I got bored. It took far

too much energy to assume these hobbies and integrate myself into a lifestyle for the sake of appearing cultured. My appreciation of these “ﬁner” things unraveled to make way for all the voices I had yet to be exposed to. So in London when I had the chance, I spurned almost every opportunity to go to a museum, except one night when I was set on stretching my day out for as long as possible. I went to the National Gallery for the second time in my life and not for another attempt at recreating that iconic scene from St. Trinians. I had played with the idea of seeing Kehinde Wiley’s The Prelude. As a self-described postmodernist and counterculture artist, I enjoyed how his pieces blended time with hyper realistic representations of modern African Americans in the style of old master paintings. He also fuses diﬀerent styles bringing together a uniqueness that is not just observed but felt by the viewer. After

his Rumors of War statue in 2019, I was curious, to say the least.

Kehinde’s exhibit was not the first I explored. I skirted round a crowd of pro-Ukrainian protesters on my way in and marched through the entrance looking for a bathroom. Afterwards, I queued for a VR experience of The Consecration of St. Joseph mostly for the sensation of putting on a VR headset for the second time that day. Then I made my way to the exhibit. I marveled at the paintings, the way nature in the background was juxtaposed against the otherwise ordinary-looking figures in the foreground. The planes of perspective never quite blended but they weren’t isolated either. What I found most incredible were the expressions they bore and the detail that was expressed through distinct lighting and contrast choices. They would have jumped right off the canvas if they could, they were just that lifelike. In Prelude (Babacar Mané), the titular character, a young Senegalese man, replaces Caspar David Friedrich’s “Wanderer” and gazes off into the distance. It was interesting seeing Black people depicted in this way, connected to nature in an artistic way and without any

historical context. This is the kind of sampling and subverting I enjoy most in Black art and I find it a joy to witness its executions and feel within myself, some sort of agency to reclaim and reexamine as I see fit. The exhibit culminated in a half-hour multi-channel short film with stunning visuals and poetry. In this space, the paintings really did come to life and Kehinde’s characters existed in the snowy Norwegian mountains in tranquility despite the extremity of their surroundings. I sat on the bench in this otherwise dark room, darting my eyes between the six screens as I tried to soak up as much as I could. I wanted to “get it”, I wanted to appreciate the film in its own right and pay attention to its signals, but I think I may have left with more of an appreciation for the experience. I watched the other Black people in the room as they moved from one piece to the next and thought how nice it was that we could have this, that there could even be a we. I don’t know if I understood everything there was to understand from the exhibit, but I think art isn’t about what you see or don’t see, but its impact. And if you can take away more than just the memory of being there, then it’s done its job.

Marketing the Monarchy: Lessons from the Barbican Weston Curnow

How long will the monarchy last? Among the members of the London Review answers vary wildly. Though I am less optimistic than the most zealous of Royal enthusiasts, not believing the monarchy will last from everlasting to everlasting, I find it hard to believe that the crown won’t survive the century. One only needs to look backward to see the unmatched dynamism of the British Crown. Surviving the age of absolutism, though not without the rolling of a head or two, the Crown limped into the 18th century only by forging a closer relationship with the people; the age of reason found the divine right of kings less and less palatable as the rational century beat apace. Without heavenly eschatology to substantiate one’s divine position on the throne, a bigger and better justification for the monarchy was sought

– the consent of the middle class. From the Glorious Revolution, throughout the reign of the four Georges, up until the death of William IV, the United Kingdom witnessed the growth and solidification of the world’s largest merchant middle class. It was with the ascension of Queen Victoria that the British Crown’s relationship to the power of the British middle class was taken to its logical conclusion. During the 18th and early 19th centuries, the crown served as a promulgator and patron of the middle class – being in support but not of. In her characteristic savviness, Victoria, early in the century, saw what the industrialization of English society meant for the crown – no longer would the monarch seek the consent of the middle class, she would become the middle class – the real kingmakers. With her obsession with modesty, morality, and most importantly, preoccupation with family affairs, the Queen of the British Empire and Empress of India, at arguably the height of her Kingdom’s power, appeared less like the distant rulers of ages past and more like the old world’s neighborhood grandmother – a calculated image of domesticity on behalf of her and her government. Today the monarchy has lost its brand identity. Despite the steadiness of Queen Elizabeth II and her navigation of many an annus horribilis, the crown no longer feels like a bulwark of continuity – instead, the public receives mixed messages; jostled between the playboy persona of Charles and millennial hustle of William and Kate, the public is witnessing a last-ditch attempt to salvage the brand of the British Monarchy out of the ruins of a bygone era. In trying

shining oasis for the young, urban executive of London seemed hopelessly far away. Even the estate’s guiding philosophy seemed discordant and confused; the sales offices advertised The Barbican as offering the dream synthesis of French culture, Italian cuisine, and Scandinavian design, none of which I found during my visit. Throughout the late 80s to the early 2000s, the Barbican became increasingly viewed as a

to figure out how to craft an identity out of something no longer en vogue, the British crown must look no further than The Barbican – The UK’s foremost exemplar of the Brutalist architectural style. Despite being the modern poster child of Brutalism, the center was planned and built between 1951 and 1985, a span that charts the whole arc of the style's era. In that time the Smithsons, the originators of the term Brutalism, from the French béton brut, had gone from innovators to laughing stocks with the failure of the infamous Robin Hood Gardens, Pruitt Igoe had risen and fallen, arguably marking the death of modernism, and Philip Johnson and Frank Ghery had emerged as the new innovators, evolving out of the confines of earlier rigidity by defining their new work in stark opposition to what the Barbican had come to represent. Though well-intentioned, the project was supposed to ameliorate the housing shortage after WWII, by process of committee, the complex drifted further and further from its intended purpose of housing for the people. By its final grand opening, performed by Queen Elizabeth, the center already appeared hopelessly dated. Its designer’s dream of building a

monumental failure. Public opinion of Brutalism was so poor that through the 90s, the complex’s managers attempted to hang giant gold statues on the exterior walls in an attempt to soften the site's image. Yet, the story of The Barbican Center doesn’t end in gilded humiliation. Through the curious convergence of diverging variables, from the rise of the internet to shifts in architectural preference, the Barbican has steadily come back within the public’s good graces. The fact that I was able to pay for a professionally led architectural tour of the Barbican which terminated in a completely self-referential gift shop would have been nearly unthinkable when the center opened in 1985. Today

the Barbican is one of the most popular underground tourist destinations in London. I attribute this rise in popularity to the acceptance of shtick – the Barbican realized that it can’t be anything else but the hulking monument of rusticated concrete that it is. Having admitted to and now fully embracing its Brutalist identity, the Barbican has become an icon of London - a triumph in architectural authenticity. The lesson of the Barbican for the royal family is the acceptance of history, place, and identity. Though realities change and hardships are often overcome, as the elastic history of the British crown displays, the fundamentals do not. Despite the mass expansions and contractions of British power, the royal family remains what it has always been – a quirky, if not a little eccentric, band of differing personalities ruling one little, often rainy, island nation. Instead of pretending to be continental monarchs of

a bygone era, members of a dead Victorian aristocracy, or crown-wearing social media influencers, the future requires authenticity. Like the barbican shedding its golden statues to embrace the concrete beneath, in order to survive the century, the British crown must proceed with sincerity, using its history to face its future. vivat regina elizabetha!

Fish? and Chips You’re in London, so you have to have fish and chips at least once, right? Well, maybe not. Not if you’re a vegetarian like me. As we prepared for the trip, I worried about being the odd one out since many of my fellow London goers were excited to have some of this classic British dish. But there had to be an option for us herbivores, right? My hope became a reality when I saw “Halloumi and Chips” on the menu of every Greene King pub I went to. Now, I didn’t know what the heck halloumi was, but I found out that it is just a type of cheese, which was battered and used as a fish substitute. My interest was piqued. So, I went and tried it, and let me tell you it was delicious. I admit that I had this dish three times during the trip. I also like peas, and the side of mashed peas it came with was prepared really well. So, I definitely recommend skipping the seafood and trying this delicious alternative. -Mackenzie Gregory

The Unoﬃcial Consulting London Reviewer

Pint Talk By: Max Lillich

My favorite thing about traveling abroad is experiencing the culture and talking with the locals and what better way to do that then go to where they drink. My ﬁrst experience with the pubs was on the 2nd day where I made a magical discovery: after the pub closed you can get a to-go cup and drink in the streets. The very next day I would get a taste of local culture, I happened to be in Northern London with my cousin during an Arsenal game. As we were walking to a pub after a meal I saw a large group of opposing Leicester city fans crowded outside a pub banging on walls and telephone booths screaming chants at Arsenal fans. My cousin told me that the pub we were going to was an Arsenal pub because apparently they are very strict about opposing and away fans intermingling in pubs in England. Once we went into the pub it was a sea of red (Arsenal’s primary color of course) these fans were also chanting and began to march towards the stadium once gametime approached. My next pub experience would come during St. Patricks day because I would be doing my Irish blood a disservice by not going out and drinking Guinness on St. Patrick's day. I ended up going to a pub with the not very Irish name of Waxy O'Connors in central London. I would have another run in with my newfound ability to drink on the streets since there was an hour long line just to get into the pub. During this hour-long period I talked to a group of British college students and we compared what we do on weekends. I explained how weekend festivities in the States typically consisted of going out

around 10 and jumping around bars until about 1 or 2. In Britain the drinking starts much earlier because of the pubs closing at 11 and then if you want to keep going after that you have to go to a club which is more like what we would call a bar in America. Inside the pub there was a live Irish band that of course had a ﬁddler. One of the sets played by the band was Irish music (as expected). The interesting thing was that during the 2nd set they played songs that, I at least thought, would only be sung by kids in American bars like Take Me Home Country Roads and Sweet Caroline. I struck up a conversation with some Irishmen and found that unsurprisingly most of them had family in Boston. There was one Irish guy from Dublin I talked to for a while then I slowly realized I was understanding maybe half of what he was saying, apparently I had responded correctly though because at the end of the conversation he told me “I like yer attitude ye need to come visit Dublin”. Visiting this pub on St. Patrick's day was great because not only did I get to talk to people but it was somewhat crowded so I got to see what the full bar atmosphere is like in London.

Obligatory pint of St. Patricks Day Guinness.

The cousin I mentioned above invited me to watch the rugby Six Nations Cup with her boyfriend and 10 of his friends. This was the most authentic British experience I had in London. With the drinking beginning at 2, yelling about sports, and crude insults being hurled I felt thoroughly immersed. As I sat down at the table my cousin’s boyfriend was jawing oﬀ with his mate about each other's mums. My cousin who is French (not the best time to be French since England was playing France in rugby that night) was called out for wearing a white scarf since it was akin to surrendering. One of the people at the table was Welsh, so it was a fun topic of conversation when

Italy got their ﬁrst rugby win over Wales on a last second score. At one point during the festivities I sat down with a pint of beer and committed the cardinal sin of also getting a pint of water. I was immediately called out and needed to regain my pride so I went back to the bar and brought back 4 shots, two for me and two for the person who enjoys dehydration. After regaining my honor, I had a great time watching and learning the rules of rugby while also playing some foosball and billiards. I really felt at home at this pub because of my familial connection, new friends, and also because I got carded while getting drinks just like I would in Kansas.

A Diva House on 3 wheels by: Marley Hays Somewhere lurking in the shadows of the national gallery, there is a fleet of neon fuzzy bike rickshaws waiting to escort you from Mama Mia: The Musical to any dive in Chinatown. Allegedly they run £200 per mile. At 11pm in post-Pandemic Britain these rickshaws sling hotter club mixes than the sleepy bars of Soho. “What is love baby don’t hurt me,” quickly earsplits into Biggie’s hypnotic beat, “hah, sicker than your average, huh,” before whirling into Adele’s “Easy on Me.” These seamless, surprising mixes jittered me from my apathy. Multiple times I urged with my companions to jump at these schmaltzy tricycle sex-lounges. Maybe these bike beats are the training wheels for London’s burgeoning hyperpop scene. Did Charli XCX get her start mixing for pedicabs? The drivers cast a wide genre net, hoping to capture any charmed drunk in London’s tourist garden. I was charmed, but cash poor. I guess those who are pound foolish just have more fun.

Photos from Ryan Bassil for Vice

England: A Book Tour By: Major Copeland and Ashleigh on this trip, and they both share my love of books. We made it a point to go to different bookstores wherever we visited and by the end of the trip we had purchased dozens of books.

I’ve had an interesting relationship with books my whole life. When I was younger, I never used to read. I didn’t think words on a page could be nearly as interesting as a TV show or movie, so I refused to pick them up. As I got into middle school, I still didn’t enjoy reading. I would only read a book when it was absolutely necessary. My whole mindset changed during my freshman year of high school when my friends forced me to read the Harry Potter series. Those were the first books that I had ever thoroughly enjoyed. They showed me that books are so much more than simply bound parchment. They are a means to distant worlds and I couldn’t wait to get lost in them. Since then, I have avidly read books whenever given the chance. When I imagined this trip to London, I knew that visiting bookstores was an absolute necessity. Luckily I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. I spent a lot of time with Aubree 68

We went to five book stores in total; The British Library, Blackwell’s in Oxford, Heffer’s in Cambridge, Topping & Company in Bath, and Hatchard’s in London. Many of the bookstores were huge with multiple floors, but they maintained a cozy small-town atmosphere. While we visited a lot of different bookstores, there were two that stood out to me. These were Topping & Company in Bath and Hatchard’s in London. I think that Topping & Co. was my favorite bookstore. I was in love with the city of Bath, and this bookstore did not disappoint with its walls covered in books. There was a wide selection to choose from, and like many of the other bookstores that we visited, there was a second floor as well. Topping & Co. was a book lover’s dream. It was a little overwhelming with such a vast array of novels, but they had tables with books of similar genres that I gravitated towards. It was fascinating to find unique stories that caught my eye, many of which I probably wouldn’t have found if I had just looked on the shelves. This was also my favorite bookstore experience

utterly surreal to be in a bookstore that is so historic and well-known. It was so large that I feel like I barely scratched the surface of their book selection. I did pick up a few books that I wanted to read, and I am in love with how there were different versions of these books that I wouldn’t be able to get back in the United States.

because Aubree, Ashleigh, and I did a book exchange afterward. We all went off and found a book for each other, and then we exchanged them in a nearby café. It was so much fun to give each other books that we might not have picked for ourselves but that looked interesting all the same. It was also a unique experience that allowed me to explore the store with a different mindset.

The thing I loved most about all of the different bookstores that we went to was how unique they all were. I never went into two bookstores that were quite the same. This experience in England has strengthened my appreciation for bookstores in general and how creative and inspiring they can be. Going to these bookstores with friends and learning about our different book tastes, all while getting each other into different genres, was a great experience. I cherish every book that I purchased while on this trip, and each one of them is a souvenir that reminds me of a book tour in England that I’ll never forget.

The other bookstore experience that stands out was our trip to Hatchard’s. It is the oldest bookstore in London, established in 1797, and it has been in the same location since 1801. There are a total of five different floors, and there are specific genres on each floor. It was

Life Happens By: Brooke Blankenship

As a graduating senior, I have had an abnormal four years of college here at the University of Kansas. Some of it bad, some it amazing, and some of it can only be described as unexpected. I witnessed and celebrated a Superbowl win, a global pandemic happened, I only spent two of four years on campus in-person, I changed my career goals, and I was a part of a National Championship journey. I learned much during my time at KU, but the most inﬂuential part of my education came outside of the classroom during the pandemic. As a planner and a believer of the “give and take” or “work and earn” philosophy, I was forced to consider that maybe this was not how life works. My classmate Radhia Abdirahman said it best during a conversation on the tube in London: “Sometimes you make things happen in your life, but the majority of time, life happens to you.”

Reflecting on these words as I perched on the edge of a statue pedestal in London, I couldn’t help but think back to one of my biggest ambitions as an entering freshman - study/living abroad. I was determined to spend at least a semester but ideally an entire year living in another country and learning another culture. I was hungry for global experience and a life rich with connections to various parts of the world. And I must admit, I still am to this day. However, the more I tried to force this experience to happen, the further away I seemed to push it. Life kept happening to me, God had plans for me that were larger than myself and did not align with what I wanted for my friends and family. As I experienced several unexpected losses of young, vibrant life close to my family and I during 2020, I was placed in situations unimaginable to my younger self. I learned some very hard lessons that allowed me to begin valuing and experiencing the world around me in an entirely new way. Although I had a refreshed perspective, I did not lose sight of my initial ambitions. Being in London provided me with a great opportunity to begin making the global connections I have always wanted. I allowed myself to consider, if only briefly, an alternative path forward which involved acquiring a job in London rather than pursuing graduate school in the States. While there, I embraced this possibility and put my best foot forward in terms of job hunting. During lunch breaks and morning coffee I would pull up a list of firms in London I created during my sophomore year of college. I quickly narrowed down my list and sent emails in hopes of getting a response. To my pleasant surprise, not only did I get

responses from nearly all the ﬁrms and individuals I reached out to, but I also moved forward in the recruiting processes and acquired interviews.

Once the shock and excitement wore off, I began thinking through everything and seriously considering what I wanted for my future. Another fellow London Reviewer and fellow Catholic, Ginny Hannahan, encouraged me to pray about it. I embraced prayer as the form of surrender and guidance I needed in this decision making process. It did not take much for me to feel a gentle nudge and peace at the thought of pursuing graduate school. I could sense that my time to take off to a foreign country was not yet here. Visiting London this spring showed me that I was capable of my dreams and allowed me to briefly experience a global life-style that I hope to one day pursue. However, there is more for me to make happen in my life at home, and there is more life waiting to happen to me. I will hold on to this experience, the friendships I made, and the lessons I have Weston’s Filler learned so that I may return again as an Weston’s Fillereven better version of myself.

Famous for a Day Famous for a Day

Job Hunting!

Weston Curnow

Famous for a Day

“Excuse me, may I take a photo with Weston Curnow you?” Though confused, I responded with an immediate yes.may Afterall, not?with I was on Weston Curnow “Excuse me, I takewhy a photo vacation – what’s the point of saying you?” Though confused, I responded with anno abroad? Fifteen minutes later, I was immediate why not? I was on Though “Excuse me,yes. mayAfterall, I take aa similar photo with you?” confronted proposition. “Hello, vacation – what’s with the point of saying no confused, I Iresponded with an you… immediate yes. can take a photo with I am from abroad? Fifteen minutes later, I was Afterall,Ecuador.” why not? I was on vacation – what’s thegirl point I wonder if this confronted with aInteresting… similar proposition. “Hello, ofcan saying no abroad? Fifteen minutes later, I was is related to with the last one?I am Surefrom enough, she I take a photo you… confronted with a similar “Hello, wasn’t. “Odd, perhaps I am ifjust wearing a I Ecuador.” Interesting… Iproposition. wonder this girl can take photo with you... I am from Ecuador.” Interesting... I wonder thisfrom girl is related to the last particularly attractive tie today.” Moments later, a third girl, if also South America, is related to the last one? Sure enough, she approaches, “Hi there, is it okay if we take a photo?” This must stop, I have sights see! Who one? Sure enough, she wasn’t. “Odd, perhaps I am just wearing a particularly attractive tietotoday.” wasn’t. “Odd, perhaps I am just wearing a dolater, these Ialso am?from “Who, exactly, do youapproaches, think I am?” – “why, you’re Louis Partridge, Moments agirls thirdthink girl,today.” South America, “Hi there,America, is it okay if we take a particularly attractive tie Moments later, a third girl, also from South right?” “Um, no,isII it am not.” well… cando I still take a picture with you?” “Why Later, photo?” This “Hi must stop, have sights see! these girls thinkI Ihave am?sights “Who, exactly, do you approaches, there, okay if “Oh, wetotake a Who photo?” This must stop, to see! not…” Who at girls dinner, we Ihad go for do fishright?” andthink chips. While to enjoy my plate, of do these am?decided “Who, exactly, you I am?” “why, you’re Partridge, think I am?” – think “why, you’re Louisto Partridge, “Um, no, –I trying am not.” “Oh,Louis well... cana Igroup still take giggling girls walked by the door, came back, no, I am not.”not...” “Oh, well… I still we takehad a picture with not…” a right?” picture “Um, with you?” “Why Later, atcan dinner, decided to you?” go for “Why fish and chips.Later, While entered, ordering food – toofme, a at dinner, we had decided to go for fish andgirls chips. While to began enjoy my plate,entered, a group trying to enjoy my plate, a group of giggling walked bytrying theand door, came back, and began pretext. All the by while, these came girls were giggling girls –walked the door, back,laughing ordering food to me, a pretext. All the while, these and pointing – two even taking photos. In great entered, and began ordering food – to me, ataking girls were laughing and pointing – two even burst girls out, “the thing you need pretext.dismay, theMarley while, these werelast laughing photos. InAll great dismay, Marley burst out, “the is a stroke of your ego.” Perhaps she waslast right, and pointing – two even taking photos. In great thing you need is a stroke of your ego.” Perhaps butMarley darn did it feel to bething mistaken forshe dismay, burst out,good “the last you need was but did it feel good to be for English based, daytime television staring, is aright, stroke ofdarn your ego.” Perhaps she wasmistaken right, teenage English based, daytime television staring, teenage heart heart throb. But, perhaps fame isn’t for me – I but darn did it feel good to be mistaken for much prefer to eat my vinegar soaked fried fish in throb. But, perhaps fame isn’t for me – I much prefer English based, daytime television staring, teenage peace, thank you very much. toheart eat my vinegar soaked fried fish peace, you throb. But, perhaps fame isn’tinfor me –thank I very much. much prefer to eat my vinegar soaked fried fish in peace, thank you very much.

Act To live, to err, to

fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life” James Joyce

By: Marley Hays “Truly to speak, and with no addition, We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name”Hamlet, Act IV, scene IV I heard of Hampstead Heath from Rachel, the resident alumnus who joined us for the Hamlet performance. I told her I’d been having a great time in London, but needed some green space that wasn’t so posh. The impeccably florid private gardens of Kensington are hard to hate. But their restriction to commoners begins to irk. Many of the surrounding properties are vacant wealth havens for oligarchs. Hardly anyone was using these oases. Rachel suggested I check out Hampstead Heath. Hampstead Heath in the Borough of Camden has the largest single area of common land in all of Greater London. Common land denotes an area of land where certain rights to common use are maintained. These traditionally include Pasture, the right to turn livestock loose for grazing, Turbary, the right to take sods of turf for fuel, and Pannage, the right to turn pigs out for grazing acorns on a plot of land in Autumn. I didn’t see any cows or sheep loose on the Heath. Sod harvesting appeared to be restricted to little ones yanking grass from the earth. Joy is its own source of fuel, I guess. “The Heath,” as it is locally known, is one of the highest points in Greater London, offering views of the London skyline, including St. Paul’s, the London Eye, and BT tower. The Heath first touched history in 986 when king Ethelred the Unready (then Middle English unræd, or “poorly advised”) granted his servant a plot of land at “Hemstede.” Against his namesake perhaps, the legacy of passing land to servants might have foreshadowed the future of

Hampstead as a "land for the people.” Throughout the next 1000 years, the Hampstead passed from Kings’ butlers, to hunting land, to Viscounts, but the majority remained common land. In 1888, Parliament Hill was purchased for the people at a paltry 300,000 pounds.

Quakers of Hampstead.

Within minutes of getting off at our tube station, we were privy to the sloping hillsides that characterize a heath. A heath is an ecological designation that refers to areas of low-fertility and acidic soil, in this case London clay, that cultures scrubby grasses and shrubs. The streets of the Heath have more topography than most of London. Winding around lovely brick facies, it isn’t unusual to miss a quaint church spire growing in your shadow. I was

intrigued by a Quaker Meeting House with an open door. We should have known by babybuggy toting mothers closing in on the gates from all directions that this was no ordinary Quaker Meeting. Sure enough, a sign by the door told us we were too old to ride. Thursday mornings are for Quakcare.

On Parliament Hill, we passed the bottle between the three of us. Drake, Weston, and I took swigs and felt the warmth of the sun seeping on our necks. I played some Irish shanties, skipping to the rhythm of “Mountain Dew” by the Clancy Brothers. Apparently, Hampstead Heath is one of the safest places for gay cruising in London--an activity that has history dating back to the 17 century. King Henry VIII, in characteristic haphazard moral selectivity, laid down a Buggery Act in 1533 prohibiting gay sex under penalty of death. I’m saddened that legal history has endangered gay life. Still it joys me that people always find ways to live despite institutionalized repression. George Michael cruised on Hampstead Heath. And 100 years earlier Karl Marx, OG private property antagonist, took his family to the “lungs of London” as his favorite city outing. th

Drunk in Love. We wandered to the main park where we would find Parliament Hill, the crowning lookout point. Before we worked our way deep into the woods, I insisted that we buy a bottle of wine to carry with us into the park. Now a couple of blocks from the nearest Tesco, we went into a nearby pub and asked the woman working there if we could buy a bottle of wine from her. She lit up at our romantic proposition. She must have also seen Linklater’s Before Sunrise, when Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy plead with a bartender to let them buy a bottle of wine to garnish the night of their lives. Unfortunately, she couldn’t serve us for another 45 minutes, and we’d have to drink on their stoop. Our time was waning, so we yielded to brick and mortar Tesco and satisfied our urge.

George Michael.

Resisting the dispiriting gravity of private property, whose iterations in London are as grand as Buckingham palace and as superficially mundane as $2 million mews, we breathed in an air of common land at Hampstead Heath. In my own place in time, I reflect on the progress that affords a free, unmarried woman with no property like myself to swig a bottle of wine at the highest natural point in the city. I pity the oligarchs stiffening in their palaces below. There’s freedom in being so common.

“Hadn’t there been talk of visiting the KU bar?” – “I quite thought there had!” With that our resistance to retiring to our respective chambers turned to action. Grabbing our coats, we set out over the polished brass threshold, with a nod to Queen Liz as we passed. Through the mews, and around the Pizza Express that singular anomaly – we were descending to the depths of the Piccadilly line, leaving the gardens of Kensington, with her church bells and padlocks, bound for Leicester Square, determined to eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we would die, unto London. Seven hours before we were due to depart for Heathrow, we arrived in Leicester square. Musical rickshaws, stumbling drunks, and neon calligraphy – the air was electric. The square sang a song unto itself. It was as if, by some ancient knowledge, the stones hummed our adventure’s cadenza, bidding us a traveler’s salutation. From the beat of the night cop to the merry maker’s mug, Leicester square was at once both ancient yet modern, haunted yet living –one might have expected Shakespeare or Marlowe to emerge from the vape plumes, seltzer dans la main. Pressing on, through watch hawkers, and midnight maître ds, we too became members of that late-night symphony. Picking up our bows of excitement, applying rosin of disgust, we joined the Leicester players in a London medley, con fuoco.

And suddenly, just as we had resigned our final hours in London to the stupefying cloud of Leicester square, we were drawn back to reality, out of our trance. There, before us, like a guiding light amongst the crags, shown the letters we, despite our convoluted route, had been searching for – KU. We had arrived at the KU bar. Our embassy of reality amongst the confusion of the surreal. Relived and ready to seek shelter from the parade of absurdity outside, we approached the bar, prepared to enter. Upon further inspection, the bar, so far from the desired and familiar haunts of

the Jayhawk, The Wheel, The Bull, or The Hawk, the KU bar of London had less to do with the University of Kansas than The Hawk does with fine dining. As it turns out, the KU Bar, of London, is one of the metropolis’s oldest and largest Gay bars – flashing lights, plenteous opportunities for dancing, and a disco ball – nothing is left to be desired for the club enthusiast. Though at any other time, the discovery would have been considered a comedic misunderstanding and an opportunity to dance with new friends, that night, the discovery prompted an existential realization… I was to have my eleventhhour vision halfway between the Lego store and a twenty-four-hour Chinese buffet. Typified by the KU bar, London is a city of mystery and confusion. How did the largest gay bar in London come to bear the name of a public research university 4,371 miles away? How many of the bar’s patrons that evening could tell you what a Jayhawk is? London, that old gal, contains multitudes. Before coming to London, I had my ideas about what London was, or what I thought London should be. London, chronicled by Dr. Johnson and Dickens, was the quiet, garden city at the center of an Empire, more cultural than physical now, but that’s a mere difference in terms. London, the shining elegy to Queen Victoria and the glory of the English way… that was the London I was expecting. Of course, like any childish vision, such a vision, with additional information and differing perspectives becomes, well, childish. If every other major city I had ever visited had been influenced by modernity, for better and for worse, what was to make me think that London had been evolutionarily paused at the death of

Queen Victoria in 1901? Like any other center of global importance, London has its share of glass rectangles, therein dwelling the mammon makers of the world, Chinese Communist Party property speculators, and oligarchs of every stripe and creed. So too does London contain her share of modern advantages, cuisine and culture from the world over, hospitable and charitable institutions, and an inclusive and kind society rooted in the beauty of its history. Of course, my realizations didn’t stop with contemplations of London as an idea and my expectations for the city. Informed by external realization, I began to contemplate my interiority and how I was shaped by visiting London. As an aspirational adult, I can admit that throughout my time in London, I did not always embody my best self. At times, as a reaction to my crumbling presuppositions, I was a bit more stubborn and obstinate than I would like

to have been, perhaps best evidenced by my attending the Changing of the Guard twice, against the advice of friends and professors alike, and for what? Most importantly, it wasn’t until our last day abroad, that night in Leicester Square, that I realized my best moments in London were those spent with my friends, taking things as they came, away from the ordeal of central London and among the tree-shaded, semi-detached, 21 °C, paradise of the garden suburbs, namely Kew Gardens and Hampstead. As long as I have been back in the United States, the first photo I typically show people isn’t one from our visit to the Opera, nor is it the photo I took of Prince Charles and Camilla in front of Westminster Abbey, it is the photo of Drake Dugan, Marley Hays, and myself enjoying the sun on the Heath with a bottle of screw cap, drugstore Chardonnay.

Before the beauty of a vase is able to be fully appreciated, the clay must first be run through a kiln, burnt and tested, before emerging, stronger and more aesthetic than before. So too was my time abroad. Tested and challenged by my expectations and beliefs, forged by conversations and disagreements with others, and refined by love, with an open heart and a willingness to learn, I realized

that the best part of the London Review was experiencing the beauty of travel with people, with the person, that I love. What seemed to me careless impediments to my education abroad, mostly all suggested by Marley, ended up becoming my favorite parts of the trip. Through listening and trust, I saw parts of London I would have never seen, experienced things I would never have recognized as important, and explored modes of thought and being I would have been quite averse to if it weren’t for the loving pushes from Marley. Though I think all who attended that lastditch outing to Leicester square only to realize KU bar isn’t as KU as we thought consider the evening a loss, I am grateful the evening happened, though perhaps not as thankful for the consolation time spent in the casinos of London, though that story is beyond the scope of this article. What must be said is that travel is what you make it, and if you are willing to open yourself to love and friends, you might get to see a little more than the changing of the guard.

Leaving No Crumbs Drake Dugan

Eat /ēt/ verb 1. to exceed at a given task; slay As we all know, Dr. Mary Klayder is an incredible professor and mentor. Her exuberance, intelligence, and care is immediately evident to any who have the pleasure of interacting with her. What might not be as obvious to the naive onlooker is that she has a dark side, oh yes, there is a danger that resides in an extremely observant person who possesses ample wit and comedic timing; she holds a power that requires great responsibility. Dr. Klayder is able to control these roasting urges, for the most part, by using them for good. She latches onto a student or two who clearly needs a good humbling and makes them the targets of her jest. A little quip here, a tiny dig there— just enough to satisfy the gnawing need inside to roast. In a noisy pub on the last night of the London Review, Dr. Klayder, Harry, Weston, and I chatted as we enjoyed our last meal in London. I had introduced Weston to a new piece of slang earlier in the trip, “to eat.” We made this phrase everyone else’s problem. There was not a sentence that would go by where either of us wouldn't use the terms “eat,” “ate,” “left no crumbs,” “devoured,” “give me that plate,” etc. Maybe it was the intrigue of a new piece of slang, maybe it was the innocent giddiness in which Weston proudly used the newfound term, maybe it was the adrenaline from the successful end of another London Review, but something overcame Dr. Klayder in that moment. She perked up, concealing her malice in a sweet

smile as she innocently asked me to define the context in which the term should be used. We both told her anecdotes about cases where the slang could be utilized. Playing her part with perfect composure, she led Weston into her trap like a sheep to slaughter. “So I would say Drake lives to eat?” she innocently asked Weston. We both applauded her for her ability to quickly adapt to the new vocabulary. Succumbing to her instincts, she made another remark in the same innocent tone, “Then I would also say that, you Weston, live to be eaten.” Weston sits frozen, too stunned to speak, the fowl he was raising to his mouth slips back onto his plate as he stares, stupefied. I burst out in the already deafening pub, “HOLY SHIT, Dr. Klayder just ate and left no crumbs! Oh my God, you just got devoured, how does it feel!?” Weston remains petrified from the shock. Dr. Klayder recoils, burying her face in her hands from shame. She had not only lost control of her powers… she had released a socially fatal blow. I continue laughing, banging my fist on the table, as tears begin to form and my torso begins to ache. Weston has begun processing through the five stages of grief. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. As this cacophony of emotions crashed upon my friend and the need for oxygen halted my laughing, I was able to make out some of Dr. Klayder’s pleading whispers to Harry. “I just can’t help it sometimes. They just make it so easy and they never expect it from me.” But I did expect it from her. Through subtle smirks, we are able to recognize each other; no matter how hard one attempts to suppress their gift, there is a communal understanding and bond between us who eat. There are those who live to be eaten, and there are those who live to eat.

On The Streets of London By: Audrey Lehmann

Having grown up my entire life as a Midwestern girl, city life has become a foreign, exciting concept to me in many ways. Put that city on a diﬀerent continent, and job done. I’m sold. Walking around London aﬀorded me so many opportunities to experience this urban atmosphere. From taking the Tube, to walking a block for groceries, to seeing random street performers throughout the night, there was no end to the novel things I got to see. To many, these must seem like the most mundane experiences imaginable. But to me, in London, they were the parts of my trip I’ll never forget. The street performers, in particular, caught my interest.

Silver Man While some friends and I were wandering the streets near St. Paul’s Cathedral, we bumped into what looked like a statue. A man, completely silver, was balancing in the air, with his arm on a shovel. Since, of course, it’s impossible to balance like that, I automatically assumed it was a statue. But then I noticed that a small crowd was standing around him, and the possibility that this may be a living person slowly dawned on me. The next moment, a little boy came forward with some coins from his dad. He dropped them in a box in front of the man. Suddenly, the silver man began jerking, making small movements. He nodded his head, tipped his hat, and then proceeded to completely twist upside down! With his hand still on the shovel, he fell forward so that his feet were straight up in the air! We laughed gleefully and applauded enthusiastically. I had read brieﬂy about these kinds of performers in my middle school French classes, but I had no idea they could be as complex as this! For a moment or two,

my friends and I tried to determine what kind of mechanism he was using. Now that I had determined that he was, in fact, a real person, I was positive there was something at play. However, we could not ﬁgure it out. Later on, at the hotel, I googled it and found some impressive techniques he could have used!

Fire Juggler From the silver man, we turned and found a man with a microphone setting out ropes for his audience to stand around. We were intrigued and had nothing but time, so we stopped. It turns out, we had serendipitously stumbled along just in time for the show to start. We weren’t standing there two minutes before we had all laughed out loud several times! Throughout the course of ten minutes, this comedian asked some audience volunteers to help him climb onto a unicycle about ten feet tall!

The most enjoyable and impressive part, to me, was how thoroughly natural and street. And all this while continually provoking us to laughter! Suﬃce to say, we were in awe.

Musicians

unplanned it all felt. Of course, I was positive he’d spent years practicing, but his demeanor was easy and playful. One of the volunteers had to be chased down because the poor man unexpectedly tried to run away. When a bird flew into his rope circle where he was performing, he spent almost a minute trying to scare it away by unicycling toward it. He corrected an audience member for filming with his phone in portrait mode, rather than landscape. Eventually, after all of this time joking and preparing, he proceeded to juggle fiery batons while unicycling around the

Besides these amazing performances that blew my mind, I also got to see a myriad of musicians. Whether they were on a street corner or in the Tube, it added an ambience that made me feel like I was a movie character. At one point, I got to hear someone playing a beautiful rendition of “Bella Ciao” on guitar, a song I know from a favorite show, “Money Heist.” This especially stuck out to me because this is an Italian protest song, and one that I would never hear in the United States. It just struck me how European this place was. Of course it was, I was in Europe. But for me, the buskers really drove this feeling home.

Living in the suburbs, the most exciting thing I see while walking the streets is the occasional runner. If it’s an especially crazy day, then the runner may have a dog with them too. I loved getting to experience London simply by the commonplace street occurrences. As a Londoner, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about many of the things I saw and heard. But as a visitor, I felt an appreciation for these small events that I am thankful for.

Not a Stalker, I Swear! Ginny Hannahan

I highly recommend accosting people so you can fawn over their dogs. I trailed this guy for like ten minutes to pet his Pomeranian, and it was totally worth it. I like to imagine his name was Mufasa, but I have no evidence to confirm that (the Pomeranian, not the random guy I chased down). 81

From Kauffman to Sondheim.

By: Jet Semrick

My musical experience in Leicester Square. I do not consider myself a musical aficionado. I grew up occasionally going to see traveling shows at the Kauffman Center and Music Hall in Kansas City, but I had never experienced the variety of shows open every single night in theatres across London. The first time I went to the Leceister discount ticket booth I had the option to see nearly every huge Broadway hit. Les Misérables, The Phantom of the Opera, The Book of Mormon, Mamma Mia, and Wicked were all running within walking distance. Originally I planned on seeing one show in London, but after seeing The Phantom of the Opera I was so impressed I had to go back and see Les Misérables. Sitting in the "restricted view" seats at the top of both theaters I experienced actors and actresses bring to life musicals that have each been running for more than 30 years in London. The Phantom of the Opera ran at the 125 year old Her Majesty's Theatre which reminded me of a Victorian era movie set. The Phantom was a flashy and exciting introduction into London theatre that kept me intrigued and excited throughout the first and second act. While I appreciated The Phantom, the show I really wanted to see was Les Misérables at the historic Sondheim Theatre. The first time I heard about Les Mis was in 2012 when my parents watched the newly released film adaptation starring

Hugh Jackman, Russel Crowe, and Anne Hathaway. For years I knew Les Mis as the famous musical about a group of people in France singing about some historical revolution. As my understanding of history improved and I took the time to listen to the musical soundtrack I knew this was a show I wanted to see in my lifetime. I have seen the movie adaptation and although a fan, can conﬁrm the in person performance oﬀered a more impactful and emotional depiction of each character. Les Misérables has been running in London consistently since 1985. Before the show I took a day trip to Brixton to eat authentic jerk chicken and to visit David Bowie's mural. On my way to the theatre I stopped by the Victoria and Albert Museum to browse their galleries and grab a quick bite to eat at a cafe. The real treat of the day was sitting down for the opening number listening to Jean Valjean, the main character in Les Mis, tell his story.

Max Lillich and Jet Semrick in front of a set at Her Majesty's Theatre in London.

Even though I knew what songs were coming and how the story progressed I found myself always excited for the theatrical adaptations and power of each number. This experience in London was unforgettable and set a high standard for

Nissan Figaro The Nissan Figaro. A two-door, front-engine, fixed convertible manufactured in the year 1991. 20,073 in all were made– right-hand drive only. In other words, you won’t be seeing any Nissan Figaros in the states. Writing for the New York Times, design critic Phil Patton called the Figaro “the height of postmodernism; unabashedly retro, promiscuously combining the elements of the Citröen 2CV, Renault 4, Mini and Fiat 500.” I first read about the Figaro in

my expectations of future musical performances. Although Kansas is not a hub for musicals, I hope I can someday see another performance of Les Mis to remember and appreciate my trip to London.

Then, I saw it, live, parked nearby our Wagamamas “That’s a Nissan Figaro!” I told Mary. “Oh, yeah, huh, huh,” Mary replied, carrying on unperturbed. If history holds, she’s probably seen this very vehicle on another London Review. But oh, this doll charmed me. Look closely and the heart on the door is inscribed, “le Pink Figaro.” The original car colors were designed to mirror the four seasons. Topaz Mist (autumn), Emerald Green (spring), Pale Aqua (summer), and Lapis Grey (winter). The season for Ms. Pink Figgie must be love.

high school. In a predictable chain of fascinations, my curiosity was piqued because my housecat was also named Figaro. Of course this would have to be my favorite car. My dream for a life in the UK was heavily influenced by my love for this vehicle. It’s so cute you want to swaddle it up and lick it. I imagined myself as a fresh divorcée whipping around the cliffs of Dover, scarf tied around my head, smelling the poppies afield. And then, like most things, the hope faded, and I almost forgot that I once had this tin dream.

And there! Again! Outside the Tate Modern in Emerald Green, the Nissan Figaro steals the show. One day, oh Figaro, I will bury myself in your pastels, clinging to my sincere love for your objective, historically cumulative, ideal form of beauty. .

— Marley Hays

Review: ‘Come From Away’ Drake Dugan

My drama teacher once told me “Drake, you don’t like musical theatre, you like Sondheim.” And while this statement is true, I was still determined to see at least one musical during my time in London. When I went to buy a discount ticket for Monday night, I had no idea what I wanted to see; the majority of people were going to Phantom of the Opera, but in my opinion, it would be a moral failure to support the theatre's biggest commercial cancer. Most of the West End was occupied with very American shows like To Kill a Mockingbird and Hamilton, or overdone mega-musicals that depend on grand sets and elaborate effects to make up for their shoddy plots and music. I genuinely felt like my hopes of seeing quality theatre were in vain until I walked up to the ticket window and was suddenly compelled to see Come From Away. A Canadian musical that focuses on the true stories of how a small Canadian town of 9,000 people was able to feed and house 7,000 world travelers while they were stranded due to closure of the US airspace after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. The musical exemplifies how people come together after tragedy, and gives hope and inspiration for the future. I had listened to its cast recording a few times years prior, and while I couldn't recollect any of the songs, I knew that I probably wouldn't hate it at the very least. But I was wrong, through the ingenious use of its minimal set, wonderful storytelling, and ample creativity, Come From Away was an exemplary piece of theatre, and not just because it took place on stage, no, it was a genuinely theatrical work. Upon my arrival to the theatre, I was taken aback at

the phenomenal seats which £30 had afforded me. The theatre was intimate, the crowd itself was beaming with positive energy, but what really caught my attention was the incredible simplicity of the set. Weathered wooden slats with an abstract white-wash depiction of the sky made up the backdrop. Tree trunks were used to support lighting and increase the rustic feel of the set. Several mismatched chairs, tables, and instruments were placed randomly on the stage. Even though I was sitting in a large West End theatre, the set transported me to a campsite in the middle of the woods. In my view, this is where theatre thrives; theatre where the show isn't afraid to admit that what is happening before you is a recreation. The show itself felt like a group of parents putting on a show for kids at a summer camp, and the juxtaposition of the youth-oriented presentation with the adult themes worked wonderfully. The show itself highlights themes of universal balance:

good and evil, love and hate, life and death, unity, and discordance. Therefore, the contrast between the subject and its presentation was in wonderful taste. The show was full of well-done surprises. Little moments when the set would transform were deeply moving because there was little the bare stage could conceal. The backdrop had a section that could drop down to act as the entrance to an airplane hull, there were lights ingrained in the wood that illuminated the backdrop as a starry night sky, and the most shocking: the stage was able to rotate. For the first forty minutes the cast had to move the chairs and tables around to create different scenes, but at the end of the song “Darkness and Trees” the stage began to rotate… I had never imagined a production would wait 40 minutes to utilize such a crucial part of the set, but the result was well worth it, my jaw was on the floor. I adored the costume changes that seamlessly allowed for 40+ characters to be portrayed by a dozen actors. With the switch of a sports jacket or the addition of a hat, along with a change in accent, the actors were able to convincingly play three or more characters each without ever leaving the stage. I loved the inclusion of the band on stage during bar scenes; it helped bring the story to life and it highlighted the talent of the band members. Come From Away also utilized one of my favorite theatrical elements: unresolved song. This is a very Sondheim thing to do: having a powerful or emotional song end before the final word so the audience cannot applaud. I have never actually

experienced the utter shock of an unresolved song in person, but again my jaw fell to the floor; I sat in shock with my hands ready to clap as I looked around the theatre in disbelief. It is true that clapping is really meant for the audience, not the actors, so when the opportunity to applaud is stifled unexpectedly it is viscerally shocking and intellectually provoking. Countless moments like these were packed into the show, and they were invigorating. Because of Covid, I hadn't seen any live professional theatre for two years and this show was excellent for reviving my passion. Come From Away was fearless in its approach to theatre and it resisted the current trend of having musicals be simply movies on stage. It was a show that was unafraid of being a dramatic work, exalting the magic that is available only in live theatre settings. I would also like to give some credit to the audience itself. I have had experiences in Broadway theatres with musicals that were ruined because of the audience. The theatre goers of London produced a lovely environment; everyone was happy to be there, engaged with the story, and appreciative of the actors. Somehow the audience was able to make the curtain call a worthwhile moment. Immediately the cast was given a standing ovation. As they exited, the band began to play an upbeat rendition of the song “Screech In” as exit music. But the audience didn't leave, we remained in the theatre clapping to the beat of the music, dancing, laughing, and having a riot after experiencing an incredible piece of theatre.

“Somewhere in between the pace of life and work and where you're going, something makes you stop and notice, and you're finally in the moment”

“Double Shot.” By: Naomi Madu

Pictured: God’s Own Junkyard.

t was my most anticipated night of the trip and it was already going wrong before it had even started. My friend and I had tickets to go to Ministry of Sound on Tuesday night. I would never expect to buy tickets to a club beforehand but according to him, you can barely get in anywhere at the door these days. He got the tickets, I made sure to pack an acceptable outfit. I was excited. I had imagined the night going in many different ways but I wanted to be surprised. It helped that I didn’t really know what to expect to begin with, but my friend was pretty confident we’d be partying all night

long. “We’ll close the place for them,” he said. I laughed because I found it hard to believe I would make it till 5 a.m. but it would be a great story if I did. We left Oxford after the sun went down. I was nervous and my stomach remained unsettled during the hour-or-so-long bus ride back to the hotel. My friend suggested getting there before midnight and even though I had ample time I worried about arriving late. I worried about not having enough time to get dressed and do my make up and pregame and ﬁnd the club. Deep inside, I worried about getting too

drunk and waking up alone with no memory of the previous night. I don’t really drink a lot so I pushed the thought out of my mind. Later on, I was at the hotel getting ready and headed out within an hour. Then came back because I forgot to take pictures. The night was cool, scintillating. I tried to grab a drink at Weatherspoon’s but they had stopped serving. 10 p.m. seemed a bit early but I didn’t worry because in London a pub is never too far. This new pub was dark, a bit packed and more intimate. I ordered a drink after a few minutes. “Would you like one or two shots?” “One. Actually, can I have two?” He obliged. The drink was disgusting but it was pretty strong. I steadied myself and went in the direction of the club. It wasn’t very far and there wasn’t a huge crowd of people coming in, though I did hear a girl trying and failing to buy tickets at the door. I guess my friend was onto something? I was increasingly anxious as I neared the door and decided, after seeing the long line to the coatroom, to hold onto mine - which was a mistake. Neon lights led the way in and the sound of EDM music grew. Once inside, I saw how bare the dance ﬂoor looked. It was still quite early and to shield myself from the glaring lights I went over to the bar. “Double shot.”

I nursed my drink in an uncomfortable booth nearby then got up. I could barely keep still with all the awkwardness that washed over me as groups of people swarmed in and went upstairs. There was another lounge with better music, more people, more dancing. I eventually settled on this one, grooving and swaying to the early 2010s hits. While ordering my next drink I was hoping it would be the one to take me over the edge as I hadn’t yet shaken oﬀ the awkwardness. I had to yell a few times to get the bartender to hear me. “A double shot.” The drink wasn’t bad, I was feeling better and all I wanted to do was dance. More people had come in and as we slowly began to press against one another, I ended up catching the attention of two South-East Asian girls or maybe they caught my attention? They were covered in neon, their faces, clothes, everything. Before them, I hadn’t met a group of happier, more energetic people. We danced in a trio close to each other. One of them asked me where I was from and for a split second that question lingered above my head. I mean I’m technically from Nigeria but I live in America, but I still live in Nigeria. I just moved here for school. I made the strategic decision to shout out “America!” as I jumped up and down like a carefree White woman in a Hollywood movie - I mean, I felt very American at that moment, that must count for something. Their eyes turned as wide as saucers.

Columbia Road Flower Ma colorful, and great for will be very tempted to I was dangerously clos never lonely and danced my wayplant. into It’s only open on the priority! bliss, stopping only to get another drink. Another double shot. I was -Ginny Hannahan growing tired and my feet were unbelievably sore, but I wanted to put oﬀ the quiet of loneliness for a little while longer. I made my way downstairs and got absorbed into the crowd, ending up with a group of East Asian friends. One of the girls smiled at me, she looked genuinely happy that I was there. I knew that I would leave soon but I felt that I could stay there for longer and remain immortalized in that moment.

Pictured: Partying at Ministry of Sound

“You’re from America?!” The brownie points I earned for my performance as the American who was brave enough to go clubbing alone injected some much-needed life into my night and we went through at least ﬁve songs together. I noticed people dancing and jumping around with glow sticks. The girls led me to a table to get some and in my state of mania, helped me remember that I’m supposed to break them to get them to light up. I wore one in a hoop around my neck and danced with the remaining in my hand. More glowsticks rained down on me as I smashed into bodies, trying to maintain my grip on my coat while making sure my phone didn’t fall out of my purse. I can’t remember when or how I lost them, but even after I was

Filler for “Double Shot” pg. 76 Brick Lane Market is THE spot for thrifting! There are an unbelievable number of stores and pop-up shops stretching down the street for what feels like miles. They also have great used bookstores, some of the best street food in London, and some really unique, edgy vibes that are worth experiencing ﬁrsthand. It’s only open Sunday’s, but it’s right by Columbia Road Flower Market, so it’s a no-brainer! -Ginny Hannahan

An American Bibliophile in London By: Sam Schaper

I knew that when I traveled to London, I would come upon countless bookstores. Bookstores in which I knew that I would be tempted to throw my debit card to the ground and say “Keep it.” before going completely bananas. Luckily, I was able to restrain myself… sorta. Below are my opinions of most of the bookstores that I went to. Due to an unfortunate incident with a shoehorn, a wildebeest, and a unicycle, I can’t recount my experiences in all the bookstores I entered. Do enjoy!

South Kensington Books South Kensington Books was the first bookstore that I visited upon arriving in London. It’s a cute little store that opens early and closes late making it quite accessible both times I felt like going. The store is divided up into two big sections, classic and contemporary, essentially. The latter part, in the front of the shop, felt a little lacking but that was easily made up for by the back of the store with the former collection of books. I was very impressed with the variety of classics that the store contained. I was able to find almost every author I searched for and was pleasantly surprised to find that they had more in stock than just their more famous works, some that even I hadn’t ever heard of! The only downside was that they were all published by the same company who apparently prints classics with ugly, bright red colors. Vain as this may sound, it is nice to be provided with multiple cover options at a bookstore, so you can walk out with exactly the book you want. Other than that, South Kensington Books was great!

Foyles Bookstore I was extremely excited for this bookstore. Though, I don’t feel like ‘bookstore’ is a fitting word. Let me try that again: I was extremely excited for this titanic, seven story bookmall. And when I stepped inside it immediately seemed like I wouldn’t be disappointed. To tell you the truth, however, I kinda was. When you enter a store that seemingly has every book that’s ever been written, it is pretty deflating to find out that it actually has none of the books that you’re looking for. On top of that, too, is that as you ascend story after story, the contents of the store get more and more specific. So specific that once I got to the top three stories or so… there was absolutely nobody there. And I really don’t blame them. So I descended again to the lower levels to get a drink, a nice snack, and resume the search for a book when a really ear-grating siren sounded. Within a couple minutes, the whole store had been evacuated, the fire brigade showed up, and I cut my losses. I totally understand that a fire (which there ended up being none of) is not the fault of an establishment, but on top of my already hampered spirits, it didn’t do anything to bolster my experience.

Blackwell’s Now, I’ve been to a lot of bookstores in my day, but this one takes the cake. In the heart of Oxford, Blackwell’s is an extremely popular bookstore for very obvious reasons. Firstly, the store had multiple levels, and made brilliant use of them. Each ﬂoor felt like a new literary adventure for me. On account of the fact

that I really had to use the restroom, I started at the very top and worked my way down. The first books I saw, therefore, were the rare vintages. I was eyeing an old, well-preserved copy of Cervantes’s Don Quixote when the woman working that section got off the phone. I figured, hey, I’m giving myself a generous budget for this trip, why not ask the price of such a fine volume! After inquiring, I quickly informed her that I had accidentally left my £90,000 at the hotel, and rushed to the next floor down. I found so many books that I wanted and didn’t even know I wanted at that store, and I bought all of them. The people working there were very kind, there was a lot of sitting space, and I ended up staying there for several hours, missing nearly everything else I could’ve done in Oxford. Oh well, I’ll just have to go back!

Bookmarks Though not my favorite bookstore, Bookmarks was, without a doubt, the most interesting bookstore I have ever been to in my life. The front of the shop is adorned with LGBTQIA+ stickers, posters supporting Ukraine, pro-choice memorabilia, just about every liberal thing you could think of. Why? Because Bookmarks is a socialist bookstore! How novel is that? Sorry, that was bad. The interior was pretty small, with entire sections dedicated to Marx, Engels, and Trotsky. The music playing overhead was… very odd. I don’t know if music is the right word, but I wouldn’t know what else to call it. Rhythmic metallic sounds? I’m not being snobby, that is literally what it was. After looking around for a little bit, I settled down in the biography section and ended up purchasing Malcolm X’s

autobiography. It wasn’t too pricey, the man behind the counter was very kind, and I got a free Bookmarks bookmark with my purchase!

The Notting Hill Bookshop So, this was a bit of a snap decision for me. I’m a fan of Notting Hill and I thought I was in the area. I wasn’t. This excursion cost me the rest of my plans for that evening, but I’m not even remotely upset about it. As I’ve shown with Blackwell’s, I’ll derail any plans for a good bookstore. And this is most certainly a good bookstore! The interior is considerably bigger than that of the one in the famous Grant/Roberts movie and it sells way more than just travel books! How boring would that have been? I was very pleased to ﬁnd that the store had a very wide selection, including a new trend that I’m very fond of where bookstores will wrap some of their books in brown paper with just a couple of notes about it, and it’s up to the customer if they want to take the risk of having no idea what they’re buying! Sadly, I ended up not buying anything, not because of anything wrong with the store (As a matter of fact, I was carrying three books at one point.), but rather due to the exorbitant amount of money I had already spent on the trip. The Notting Hill Bookshop was extremely cozy and I would happily go there again, even if I’m not in the area.

Henry Pordes Books Henry Pordes Books was the second bookstore I visited in London. It’s just oﬀ Leicester Square so walking there was a lot of fun, because there was so much to see on the way. The reason I decided to go to Henry Pordes was that it specialized in vintage books, and I was very excited to

see if there was any rare volume I could get my hands on. And as it turned out, there were tons. One of the first things I learned upon entering the store was that neither of the proprietors were named Henry Pordes. I was not too disappointed, however, because I haven’t met Denny, Freddy, or Jimmy John at any of those three establishments. The selection was excellent! I waffled over a nice, old edition of Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago for close to two hours (in the end, it was the price point that made me put the book back on the shelf), but what I was really impressed with were the more rare books they had behind the counter. Mr. and Mrs. Not-Henry-Pordes had a deluxe edition of the first Harry Potter book, signed by Rowling, and that was very impressive. But I was more taken with the second-edition Lord of the Rings trilogy they had. Both were way out of my price range but they were very cool to see.

Oxfam Bookshop Right across the street from Bookmarks, I wasn’t at all impressed with this bookstore from the outside. It was plain-looking in a modern, car-vending-machine sort of way that didn’t inspire conﬁdence. Boy was that unfounded, however, when I stepped inside and found that it had a terriﬁc selection for such a small shop. I immediately found a hardback edition of Nelson Mandela’s autobiography that I was steeling myself to pay a pretty penny… I mean, a pretty sixpence for. After looking around for a while and ogling the vintage book section, I brought my book to the counter and the kindly woman behind the glass nearly took my breath away when she charged me £3 for the book. I was so sure that I was accidentally swindling this poor lady, that

I kept quiet and essentially hid in the back of the store until my friends were ready to go. It turns out that her prices were just that good! One of my comrades walked out of the store with about ﬁve books, only paying something like £13. What I learned from this store? Never judge a book or a bookstore by its cover!

: Consumer Skipping out of the doors of the Strathmore into the rows of Kensington, you might start to innocently yearn for the “good life.” You’ll see people’s private gardens, so lucious and inviting that you’d gratefully sit under their moistened petals, hands clasped in prayer, waiting for botanical spa water to christen you. Then, like any yearning person, you’ll wonder how to be more like these rich people who leisure so well. So you’ll go to Harrods, London’s power elite shopping alcazar. Audacious Versace sunglasses are hawked by a high-ponied Londoner who asks, “can I help you?” But she’s not interested in helping you. She’s seen your granola tennis shoes, middle-class London Fog coat, and utterly practical, slouching Kipling purse. She wants your nitty paws off the treasure she’s hired to protect. Hundreds of stalls just like these dot the labyrinth halls of Harrods. In your search for a raincoat, you’ll choke on a nauseating mix of perfumes farmed, plucked, and squeezed out of the very botanicals you were ogling hours earlier. “If I don’t see natural light in 30 seconds, I’m going to pass out,” you’ll say. But you won’t get that natural light. Instead, you’ll go on a multi-level scavenger hunt for a bathroom, which will be your first induction into Britain’s water closet culture. When in doubt: check the first floor. You should have known, in a place like Harrods, natural human behaviors like peeing are far too rude and must be relegated and concealed from more valuable merchandise! Rich people, after all, are too elegant to use the bathroom. —Marley Hays

There Are Plenty of Fish in the Sea – Seriously! By: Naomi Madu

don’t like zoos or aquariums, but not because I hate animals, it’s actually the opposite. I think they have a very unethical approach to animal care and are largely exploitative. Most of all, I think wildlife is and always will be better oﬀ in their natural habitat. However, issues like this aren’t quite as simple; this was not something I was prepared to accept when I swore oﬀ zoos and aquariums. Yet, this was the attraction I chose to purchase alongside my London Dungeon ticket.

it was enough to placate me. I walked through many tanks, each of them showing off creatures of different shapes and sizes. I was enamored and with no one to share my musings, I had space to reflect and really look at my thoughts. I know in museums, it’s very easy to walk past each artwork, skim the placard for the title and author, and move on to the next. But here, I paced myself between walking fast enough to avoid the families and large groups and pausing at as many placards as I could trying to learn something from each exhibit.

I was in a bad mood and not particularly looking forward to the visit. In fact, I was prepared to hate every minute. However, it was a sunny day and I had to make every second of this trip worth it. I was quickly distracted from my disdain when I entered. There was a glass panel beneath me with what looked like a shark swimming around and a massive Easter Island statue (or replica) buried in the sand beneath. The thoughts racing through my head were as colorful as the scene around me and I had to pull myself together because I had way more to uncover. A sign informed me that I had entered the Atlantic Depths, then answered the question I was really asking. “We’re supporting the Marine Conservation Society’s sustainable seafood campaigns,” it proudly announced. I had never heard of the organization but

Pictured: A shark at SEALIFE London.

The ambiance made it a conducive environment for reﬂection as I turned over questions on environmentalism, sustainability, overﬁshing, and animal

extinction in my head. Being a family-oriented attraction, I could not get the answers by studying the signs as they were very surface-level in the information they conveyed. I did, however, use my time to think about the benefits I saw to the guests around me. I know I’m not the intended audience for information on marine biology and things of that nature, but what I absorbed simply satisfied the curiosity in me, and I guess it was the same for the children running around who gawked and gaped and yelled for “Dory” and “Nemo.” I wasn’t too far from that myself; I squealed internally when I saw the fish that resembled Dory and my breath caught in my throat watching this massive sea turtle swim around casually, surrounded by stingrays, sharks and other smaller fish. It dawned on me that I was staring at these creatures in person for the first time in my life and that I had the opportunity to because of this facility. As I watched a seahorse eat, I wondered what benefit this all was to me outside of pure entertainment. But aside from surface-level education, I could not find any more. I gave this more thought as I walked on.

Filler for “Surface Pressure” pg. 149

My first trip to Harrod’s was certainly memorable. At some point, I got distracted by a shiny object and set my phone down without realizing it. When I went to leave, I realized my mistake. After having a not-so-brief mini panic attack and wandering through the maze that is the third floor (I literally stopped to ask for directions like 4 times), I finally found customer service. Luckily, someone had dropped my phone off; I guess that’s the plus of losing your ‘valuables” in a store where it’s chump change at best. -Ginny Hannahan

Pictured: An octopus in its enclosure.

They had a rainforest section with decor resembling the texture of the rainforest ﬂoor, and an arctic section chilled for eﬀect but also to accommodate the penguins housed there. I thought they were adorable and watched a few wobble around. I considered that empathy as a vessel to garnering support could be an argument for zoos and aquariums everywhere. I guess humans can empathize better with things they are closer to physically, emotionally, or otherwise. Being able to see healthy, (arguably) happy animals up close, combined with an explanation of the dangers to their home and, ultimately,

their species, must help garner support for conservation eﬀorts. However, the fruits of these labors, we may never know. All we can ever hope for is access to transparent information concerning pressing issues of our time.

Pictured: A coral reef enclosure.

The last few sections housed mainly jellyfish. I marveled at their form, their abilities, and how much they differed according to their species. I also really enjoyed the staging in these latter sections, which were decked out in neon lights that changed colors and illuminated the jellyfish floating around. I was in awe and overwhelmed with all I had seen and learned. The diversity of fish species was impressive, and the production design was a little bonus for me as a theater kid. But I think that overall, the experience combined with some research left me feeling more wary about aquariums and this one in particular. I did enjoy being able to take some time out and evaluate an established ideology of mine, however, my concern for the environment, our ecosystems, and the animals that inhabit them remain as strong as ever. And as for whether or not I’ll ever visit another zoo or aquarium, we’ll just have to see.

Pictured: A jellyﬁsh up close.

Books at Blackwell’s You’ve just stepped inside Blackwell’s Bookstore and you’re wondering if you’ve already spent too much money on books to buy anymore. Not enough money, you think then. When you’re looking at your bank account or your already-crammed suitcase later, you’ll think you were wrong, but right here and right now all you can think about are the books. They’re on every shelf, in every nook and cranny. Blackwell’s is three stories worth of books, all organized in a labyrinthine manner, passageways and columns connecting in a way that leaves you wandering through the stacks for hours. You stumble upon your classmates from time to time, but mostly you read, studying the backs of books, the first chapter, the title, and the author until you’re sure you’ve found the perfect selection. You sit at the cafe on the third floor with a cup of coffee and a meat pie and read. You are happy . —Hannah Fraga

How to Sustain a Mysterious Injury Abroad Ashleigh Waggoner

When in London, there may come a time when all forces of good fail and you ﬁnd yourself trapped with the unimaginable, nay—the unforgivable: two injured feet. Here’s how to make the most of your journey abroad on—increasingly unstable—footing. 3.

4. 1.

You will wake on day three of your trip to an unseemly surprise. Already, you have seen wonders great and small, spent hours in astonishing museums, and roamed the streets, surrendering to your unbridled curiosity. After two days of gallivanting in the streets of London, with a week left in the trip, the ﬁrst feeling you consciously register will be pain (dramatic, very much so). 2. You will attempt to walk the very short distance to the bathroom from your rock-hard mattress. This ﬁrst attempt will be unsuccessful. Nevertheless, you must prevail! Try and try again if you

must! Take as much ibuprofen as medically allowed! Wobble until collapse, if need be! This is London and pain is of little substance to hearty travelers such as yourself, determined to make the most of your trip. For you, the London Review must go on. You make it from your room to breakfast, despite the struggle. It is here that you realize it may be impossible for you to continue on. Should you mourn the day, weeping in bed? Should you return to your room and run the icy shower water over the swollen arches of your feet? Discover what virtual events might be available from the conﬁnes of the hotel? All of these ideas will cross your mind as you anxiously devour breakfast, smuggling jam into your pocket along the way. Alas, none of these options will allow you to persevere in the streets of London. Instead, a new, untested strategy will arise from the ashes of your crumbled croissant like a burning Phoenix. You will learn of Boots. On a raving recommendation from the one and only Dr. Mary Klayder, the chain pharmacy will appear as your saving grace. Boots will be your salvation. You have a mission now: Travel to Boots. Speak with the chief pharmacist and ﬁnd a remedy to the ailment that plagues you—severe and endless pain. :’) As with any mission of grave importance, you must acquire a fellowship composed of only those brave enough to make the perilous journey. (Boots is, of course, actually very close by—on the way to the Underground.) You will limp, supported by the unyielding compassion and jeering

laughter of your friends, all the way to Boots. You will limp down the stairs, stumble across crosswalks, and flounder through foot traffic, but by the grace of God, you will make it to Boots. 8. Inside Boots, you will find a treasure spoken more highly of than gold: ankle and foot compression socks. Purchase Fish? and Chips immediately. in London, so you to have fish and chips at 9. You’re On a bench outside, you have will remove least once, right? Well, maybe not. Not if you’re a your shoes and socks, don your new vegetarian like me. As we prepared for the trip, I worried prized possession—despite the leering about the odd oneyou out will since many looks being from locals—and sigh in of my fellow London goers were excited to have some of this classic utmost relief. The trip will continue. dish. therein had be anonce option for us 10.British You will findBut wonder thetoworld herbivores, right? My hope became more, carried by those constrictinga reality when I saw “Halloumi and They Chips” ontake the menu of every Greene King athletic socks. will you across pub I went to. Now, I didn’t know what the heck halloumi the merry streets of London, to the was, but Igreens found of outOxford that it and is just a type of cheese, which campus was battered and used asto a fish substitute. My interest was Cambridge, all the way Stonehenge piqued. So, I went and tried it, and let me tell you it was and to the ancient city of Bath, where delicious. I admit I had the Seagulls sing that loudly andthis thedish windthree is times during the trip. I also like peas, and the side of mashed peas it gentle. withstride was prepared really well. So, I definitely through airports, carried 11. came You will recommend skipping the seafood and trying this home by those lovely socks. Even on the delicious alternative. plane, your feet will be snug, held in a -Mackenzie Gregory comforting hug on the long, long flight home.

The Unofficial Consulting London Reviewer I’m probably the biggest Sherlock Holmes fan you’ll ever meet, so being able to finally visit the museum in London dedicated to the great detective was a dream come true. I enthusiastically explored the three Victorian-style floors replicating the residence Holmes and Dr. Watson shared. The rooms were full of items and displays alluding to their many adventures together, and I had so much fun recognizing some of my favorite cases: The Red-Headed League, the Norwood Builder, the Yellow Face, the Copper Beeches, the Hound of the Baskervilles, etc. I made sure not to leave without getting my own deerstalker cap! While I was there, there seemed to be a training session for new employees. As I explored, a man led around a group of women wearing the museum’s Victorian dress uniform, explaining the stories related to each display. I smiled because I was so familiar with all the stories he was describing. If I ever need a job in London, I know where I’m looking. -Mackenzie Gregory

Get Thee Back to the Future. By: Mackenzie Gregory The Musical. I’ve been a big fan of the iconic 80s film Back to the Future ever since I binge-watched the trilogy twice during a marathon on TV one fateful day. What I didn’t expect was my week in London to turn into a week of geeking out about this favorite film franchise of mine. It all started with Dr. Klayder suggesting theatre tickets from the seller TKTS. I decided to check it out, and it was on their website, as I glanced through shows, that the iconic bold red and yellow title logo caught my eyes. Back to the Future: The Musical? I’m intrigued, I thought, as I internally geeked out. I wrote it down on my list of things to do, and one evening during the trip, I walked my way to the Adelphi Theatre. I am so glad that I did. As I entered the building, neon yellow element symbols spelling out “Plutonium Bar” over a chalkboard covered in scientific sketches and mathematical calculations caught my eye; The whole theatre appeared to be set up in

dedication to this show. I was surrounded by people buzzing around in anticipation. Eager to get to my seat, I made my way through the crowd up to the Upper Circle. It’s diﬃcult to describe how amazing the

set was. A large neon blue screen with the show’s title glowed from the stage, and on the ceiling and sides of the room was a circuit pattern with glowing streaks ﬂowing towards the screen. It was a bunch of bright, circuity, sci-ﬁ goodness.

The musical was adapted by the original film’s creators, Bob Gale and Robert Zemeckis, so you know it’s going to live up to its forebear. It was fantastic (but I may be biased). Olly Dobson and Roger Bart were a charming and hilarious duo, and the whole talented cast brought the characters and story to life on stage. The show included a variety of fun, emotional, inspirational, and catchy songs, along with great classics like “Power of Love” and “Back in Time.” I admit I caught myself singing along with almost every song. Besides the theatrical and musical talent of the actors, the special effects were phenomenal. They had pyrotechnics and a car driving around on the stage. I can’t forget to mention that the Delorean flew over the crowd at the end! I mean, it FLEW! I highly recommend seeing this show, whether you’re as big of a Back to the Future fan as I am or you just like great

musicals. I now listen to the wonderful soundtrack almost constantly as I adjust back to life at KU. I know I’m going to try to see it again when I go back to London this summer for the British Summer Institute program.

signiﬁcant part of the London Review mentality. It allowed me to enjoy a personal, geeky interest of mine from back home while adapting to and navigating the great city of London.

And More. That being said, the musical wasn’t the end. As I was walking down a small street in Oxford the next day, a little shop called Flaggs caught my eye. I decided to check it out. While searching through all the Oxford University gear and Harry Potter memorabilia, my gaze fell upon a Back to the Future poster hidden on a back corner wall. Was it a coincidence? Was the universe trying to tell me something? I thought it was a funny happenstance and an interesting choice of decor for the small shop dedicated to a prestigious British university. But after looking around for just a few minutes more, I saw that they actually sold this poster. I knew I had to get it for the awesome poster and cool story. However, even that wasn’t the end of it. While on a whim visit to the Globe Theatre’s gift shop, what do I come across other than Get Thee Back to the Future, a Pop Shakespeare book by author Ian Doescher that adapts the movie into a play that the Bard himself could have written. We met once again. Back to the Future plus Shakespeare? What could be better? It was almost uncanny. At this point, I knew something was guiding my way on this journey of ﬁnding Back to the Future things throughout London. I spent my trip back to Kansas reading my book, happily recognizing all the great lines from the movie with their Shakespearean twist. Thus my London Review became my Back to the Future Review. It must have been density (I’m sorry). I had no idea that this perfectly coincidental chain of events would occur. I guess it’s all thanks to spontaneity and exploration while traveling, things that have become a

Queen Victoria & Kensington Palace By: Emme Bina

I was walking through Hyde Park and noticed the beautiful marble statue of Queen Victoria at her coronation, so I captured it in a photo. The extent of my knowledge regarding her life comes from the 2009 ﬁlm The Young Victoria, starring Emily Blunt. From birth until the age of 18, she lived within the walls of Kensington Palace. It is diﬃcult to fathom a life stuck somewhere, even in a romanticized place such as a palace.

Like A Londoner By: Naomi Madu

’m not intimidated by big cities, I’ve found, even though I have grown comfortable with the mundanity of small towns and the security that follows familiarity. To me, being in London was like being dropped in the middle of nowhere and beginning to ﬁnd my way back home. I found my feet and disappeared into the wind - it wasn’t hard to do. London quite literally sweeps you away into a crowd of pedestrians zigzagging their way through traﬃc or a swarm of commuters on never-ending escalators, miles beneath the earth’s surface. And in doing so, it expects something of you; it expects you to adapt, to survive, because you will get trampled or run over. Trust me, I was almost run over by a bus, a few cars, and a bike all in the span of a week. From the moment I arrived, I took it upon myself to elevate my typical habit of people-watching and immerse myself into the culture of

self-conﬁdence in their ability to escape a dire situation if they needed to. Like the Londoners around me, I walked briskly through the tube, jogged lightly down the left side of the escalators, and tapped my Oyster card here and there like it was glued to my hand. I walked briskly out of the train station, making sure I knew which way I was turning so I could disappear yet again into the busy streets. I walked with a purpose when I crossed the streets when the light clearly indicated that I shouldn’t. I think jaywalking is necessary when others are doing it; you wouldn’t want to be left lingering on the sidewalk and looking confused, now would you?

the city by mimicking it. To pretend to be a Londoner, you must ﬁrst walk like one. I noticed it almost immediately. In my home country Nigeria, people do not walk particularly fast unless they are atrociously late for something. People walk much faster in the United States (not too much faster in Lawrence, though), but this was about more than just pace. I noticed something in their gait, something in their headspace that allowed them to walk the way they did. There was purpose, awareness, and a sense of

Pictured: Southwark, London

Though I walked myself into an immeasurable amount of pain, walking simply wasn’t enough. Like any Western country, how you speak in London is your currency. Londoners know who is and isn’t one of them based on their accent, the way their voice rises and falls, and the words they say (queue, not line, petrol not gas, and so on). My accent has always been something I wasn’t sure what to do with. When I was really young, I’m sure I sounded more recognizably Nigerian. Now, well, if I knew what I sounded like, I would probably speak with a bit more conviction, without rehearsing my every statement like a script. An accent can be a delicate thing, especially in a country with a particularly contentious history surrounding immigration. At this point in my life, I’ve fought enough battles over how “White,” “Black,” “Yoruba,” or “British” I sound, so in London, I chose to speak like me, for what felt like the first time in years. It was a lot easier than I could have imagined. Being able to order water (with a “t”) without having to repeat myself and not having to translate every sentence before speaking made it easier for me to navigate the environment with that minty, cool, London confidence. This is not to say that I can convincingly emulate a London accent or sound even remotely British; at least two people noticed (and commented on the fact), but London is a dynamic and multi-cultural city, and for the first time in 4 years I felt that there was room for me to sound different without an unbearable and condescending level of attention. More than that, I felt heard. Literally.

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Pictured: City of Westminster, London.

At this point, you’re probably wondering, so she walked the walk and talked the talk, but could she really have passed for a Londoner? Did she at least look the part? Maybe. I pride myself on the way I dress, and in a city that hosts its own fashion week, I aimed to impress on that front. But no fashion decision, I believe, is more important in the city of London than the black puﬀer. This comfortable and versatile coat is not unique to the city and is, in fact, a uniform for New Yorkers as well. But if you know anything about London’s youth, you would know that its image is almost incomplete without this item of clothing. It took a few days before I even noticed puﬀer jackets of other colors, but at this point, I was all too grateful I had brought mine because its spacious hoodie sheltered me from the rain on many occasions.

And like a true Londoner, you have to be ready for anything.

Filler for “Honey I’m Home” pg. 17

Pictured: Notting Hill.

Pictured: London at night.

Dear Borough Marke Having spent hours o ﬁrst encounter, I thought I ha In meeting you face to face helplessly as all of m prudence crumbled. had eaten freshly ro donut, and a shameless amo were disorienting in the best when or how, but if the desire any indication, I’ll come back XOXO, Ginny Hannahan

Filler for “Like a Londoner” pg. 89

By the end of the week, I felt that I had transformed into a diﬀerent version of myself. I texted back “calm” instead of “cool” and made plans to “go London Dungeon” and “go link” an old friend. I’d cringe at the idea of anyone pronouncing Southwark without a ‘v’ and easily snub a coﬀee for a tea. I couldn’t imagine needing to drive everywhere or paying more than $10 for a quick grocery store run, but the one thing I could not get used to was looking right when crossing the street. Without those conspicuous signs painted on the road, I don’t know what I’d have done.

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Act Knowing yourself

is the beginning of all wisdom” Aristotle

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Color Coding Spontaneity: An Apologia Drake Dugan

I am a man who appreciates drama, and from my days in the theatre I have realized that engaging drama must be planned, rehearsed, and executed. Of course, this may cause some to consider me overly analytical, type-A, and annoying, but if life is my stage, then I must write the script, block every movement with perfect precision, and direct each nuance to add to the drama of my days. When undertaking an incredible opportunity, like a week in London, it was immediately set in my mind that I would not allow my week to be wasted by attempting improv. No, no- impromptu was absolutely out of the question. I began my task of planning the perfect week; like a madman I combed through all the attractions in London and grouped them with their nearby neighbors, ordered them together, planned my week practically to the minute, color-coded each task: green for parks, purple for churches, indigo for museums. Lunches, lines, and late trains were all accounted for in my “script” to the city of London. Truly a personal triumph, my theatrical

Expectation:

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flair and scientific fastidiousness had cultivated a flawless color-coded schedule in which I assumed nothing could go astray. Upon the publication of my masterpiece, I began to sense the whispers and disapprovals of my supposed folly. From the silence of the GroupMe and the subtle jeers I received from Dr. Klayder, I gleaned their accusations: I am either an overbearing control-freak or an obsessive, anal, uncreative individual. Whilst these accusations do attempt to do their worst towards me, I believe that in their malice, they have also highlighted the beauty for which my approach should be praised. In the anecdotes to follow I hope to exemplify the way in which these statements have drifted so deeply into falsehood, that they now approach truth. Regarding the assertion that my schedule is merely a shackle that has been imposed on my person to create a controlling self-

inflicted restraint to my experience of London is, and I say this with no intended malice, the conclusion and rationale of one who is lacking perspicacity. When one uses the dictionary to determine the meaning of a word, they do not merely flip to a page and aimlessly search in hopes of stumbling upon the desired term; access to the entire dictionary is complete freedom, but the broadness of its contents causes the reader the adverse reaction of confinement to confusion. Instead of being shackled by scale, the wise scholar narrows their search to the page in which words of the same initial letters of the sought-after term reside. While this singular page is a constraint in the technical sense, it actually allows the scholar a freedom to attain the knowledge that they desire, whilst also allowing for enough exploration to spontaneously discover the definition of a few new terms. So too is true when trying to find meaningful moments during travel. Below I detail a sample of the many spontaneous moments I experienced between my scheduled activities. Upon arriving in London, a group of us decided to promenade through Hyde Park before beginning my scheduled museum visits. Tropical birds hung out in the trees, people on horseback enjoyed their Saturday morning, and little kids splashed in

“Know what you want to do, where you’re willing to go, what you really want to see while you’re traveling.”

Merrily We Roll Along, Stephen Sondheim

fountains. Through our sleep deprived eyes, even the horse poop seemed to gleam in the large beds of blooming daffodils and hyacinths. The sunny spring day carried us through the park with the whiff of espresso radiating from lakeside cafes as we admired banks of swans. After we left the park, we meandered our way down into a Tube station; the enchantment of the city and the bursting anticipation we felt had eased our guard as we excitedly prepared for our first Tube ride. Without a moment's hesitation I fearlessly stepped onto the escalator to the Piccadilly line, and everyone else followed. After approximately fifteen seconds the adrenaline from the park subsided and we all looked down... way down. A sudden realization hit: we just stepped onto an escalator that is so steep and deep that we could barely see the bottom. Twelve flights of stairs lay before us, and there's no way to get off but down- we cautiously grasp both handrails. The lack of sleep and excess of panic

Reality:

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begins to hit; the endlessly repeating posters and lights begin to shift and churn. The tunnel seems to morph as we continue our slow descent. This betrayal of my eyes and the realization that I may faint illuminated a slightly dramatic, but definitely warranted concern: if someone fell down this, they would likely die. We comforted each other as minutes slowly ticked by during our descent, seemingly to the center of the Earth. When we had once again reached solid

fears before escalator-phobia could calcify. Just three days later I was doublestep running up the escalator from the Piccadilly line when attempting to get to Les Misérables on-time. This unplanned moment was truly a gem; nothing bonds a group of almost perfect strangers together more than an unexpected near-

death thrill ride at nine O’clock in the morning.

ground, I felt like dropping to my knees and kissing the floor (which, as a Microbiology major, I would never do because that floor probably contained plague, tuberculosis, and a few new Covid variants. There was a member of our group who ate yogurt with a spoon they dropped on the subway floor. Even more concerning, this person also made it clear they didn't believe in germ theory earlier in the trip. And yes, this person’s name begins with ‘W-’ and ends with ‘-eston’.) While this escalator experience was horrifying, it also allowed us to face our

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In the acquisition of these moments, it is important to maintain a balance; if spontaneity is always thrilling, one runs the risk of monotony. It is also crucial to be constantly present and accepting of any blessings-in-disguise that the day may bring. Upon our exploration of Soho and Chinatown, the sunny day rejected our frantic scurrying through crowded streets between Korean grocery stores and dumpling shops. In an instant the sun shining through a myriad of red lanterns overhead transformed into a sprinkle of rain. Through our mindless gawking and exploration of the drizzle-drenched streets, Anne and I stumbled upon Trafalgar Square. As I came to recognize the National Gallery before us, fate aggressively shoved us into the next moment. Naturally, the rain forgot to

gradually crescendo before releasing its full force upon the ill-fated umbrella that Anne had borrowed. Absurd magnitudes of rain poured down as we began to rush across the rain-drenched mirror-like concrete of Trafalgar Square towards the entrance of The National Gallery. As if invited by an old friend, I walked straight into room 34; there it was, in all its magnitude and modesty, George Seurat’s Bathers at Asnières. I had been here the day before with a larger group and a far more crowded gallery. In contrast to my prior experience of onlookers eagerly queuing in order to take pictures of Van Gough’s Sunflowers or Seurat’s Bathers, the gallery stood eerily empty, and it felt as if the portrait had induced the rain in order to capture an appreciative viewer. The Bathers, a bench, and me; that is what the next hour consisted of. And while the reflections and epiphanies of that hour are uninteresting and convoluted, I wish to impress the profoundness of silence in a world of deafening noise. In that moment I was able to develop an astute understanding of my situation. I felt nothing but admiration for what hung before me; no bickering from my organic chemistry test and no gut-sinking realizations of

deadlines- just unapologetic bliss. For an hour my world stood still, as if trapped among the uneventful swim of the boys before me, and when the masterpiece allowed my departure Anne and I were greeted with another gorgeous scene. The rain had just subsided as we stepped into the sun-drenched scene of Trafalgar Square. The reflective floor of Trafalgar glittered in the light, Nelson’s Column and Elizabeth tower were shrouded in fierce contrast from the setting sun, and the stunning blue skies seemed to mimic the blue of the Trafalgar fountains. An indescribably breathtaking moment; despite the hustle of the crowds before me, the beauty of the scene froze the world and once again I was permitted to only stand and stare. Above is the story of 90 minutes in which almost nothing happened, yet everything changed. In order to complete my sampling of the spontaneous ‘pearls’ I collected in London; it seems crucial to highlight the youthful gaiety that engulfed my commutes between attractions. Somehow throughout the week an old Ke$ha controversy became a key inside-joke between Marley, Weston, and I; in 2012 Ke$ha released a promotional video for her upcoming single “Die Young”. In the

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promotion Ke$ha loudly sang the chorus of Die Young on a Japanese train. Making noise in trains is considered extremely disrespectful in Japanese culture, thus causing the controversy. Luckily, singing “Die Young” is not considered taboo on the Tube- just personally embarrassing. However, a little embarrassment could not stop a trio of prideless clowns from perpetuating the stereotype that Americans are loud. We began by daring each other to sing, fighting and giggling like a group of middle schoolers. Our initial targets were nearly deserted train cars in which our antics had little effect. Despite the negligible consequences, the absurdness of the singing was

invigorating in an obscure theatrical sense. Eventually, the singing developed from a dare to a force of habit. Due to the catchiness of the song and our association of it with the subway, we began singing it to ourselves any time we were bored on the tube. Only one example comes to mind of a time when the embarrassment of our absurdity reached a shameful peak. On our way back to the hotel, Weston and I entered a crowded Tube using different entrances; midway through the ride we began mouthing the lyrics to each other from across the train car. “I hear your heartbeat like the beat of the drum-” and then it happened… BANG BANG…I actually clapped. At the time I didn’t even notice how embarrassing this was, but in

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my defense, I believe that this unprecedented freedom to be cringe was a key factor in making The London Review so compelling and eye-opening. Another freeing and bizarre moment that I have experienced from this newfound drive to be embarrassing also began on a tube. Despite our near sobriety, an intoxication of bliss was bestowed upon Marley, Weston, and me as we adventured our way back to the Strathmore Thursday night. Due to a silent calling we all began vocalizing different melodies from Singing in the Rain. As we hurried our way out of the station, Weston began heelclicking with glee and as we ran up the stairs from the District line we swung and flung off the handrails. As we approached the hotel, our singing provided a stark contrast to the silent late-night streets. Despite the tiredness of the neighborhood, we ran and jumped and

kicked. We bolted down a Mew, Marley and I grasped arms as we skipped and danced. Weston sprinted and leaped for joy as we traversed the cobble streets. The result of our unseen performance was a crash in the empty lobby; breathless laughs caused tears of joy to mix with our sweat as we mindlessly giggled in a stupor of joy. Finally, I wish to dwell on this point: The notion that ‘true’ spontaneous travel is in opposition to that of a planned schedule is only deducible from a creativitydeprived and ill-considered logic. I understand that from a quick glance my color-coded schedule may seem stringent

and lifeless, but through its meticulous organization, I was able to craft moments of absurd contrast, breathtaking wonder, and countless surprises. I have also come to believe that in order to live the “glamorous life,” one must begin by accepting each moment as it arises. And not just acknowledging it, no, dancing with it! Life is absurd, and dramatic, and droll, but it takes a change in perspective to appreciate the madness in the monotony. Through the lens of one who waltzes with the world, an escalator is a thrill ride, a rainstorm is a reunion with self-reflection, and Tubes and mews are the stages of national tours.

“Anything you do, let it come from you. Then it will be new. Give us more to see…”

Sunday in the Park with George, Stephen Sondheim

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Unscheduled Wandering and Ditching Fixed Plans

would like to start by thanking Dr. Crawford-Parker for sending two quotes to our group chat that deeply inspired me throughout the latter half of our trip: “Real travel requires a maximum of unscheduled wandering, for there is no other way of discovering surprises and marvels, which, as I see it, is the only good reason for not staying at home.” – Alan Watts “A good traveller has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving” – Lao Tzu Throughout my childhood, my family would go on annual family vacations in the summer. My parents would place the burden of scheduling and planning on my siblings and me for each vacation. They wanted not a single second of our trips to go to waste and our days to be jam-packed with things to do to the brim. Because of this, I was used to being a planner and feared that I would not make the most of my trip if I didn’t pack my schedule while abroad. Drake and I collaborated and created a colorcoded schedule for the week that we were to be in London. It was perfect, and we were proud. However, halfway through the week, I realized that I was starting to get exhausted and that I was not truly enjoying all of my time. I was stressed out having to limit myself at certain museums and exhibits, knowing that I needed to move on to my next scheduled destination. During my first couple of days in London, I grew envious of hearing about the adventures that everyone was experiencing after wandering

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By: Anne Kim

around with no specific agenda in mind. Oxford was the only day that Drake and I had nothing planned, and when Tuesday came around, it was the most fun that I had had on our trip so far. After reading Watts’ quote, I decided that I needed to ditch the schedule on Thursday and for the remainder of the week. From here on out, there was much that I learned through a period of self-reflection that I wouldn’t trade for the world. The first thing that I learned was to live unapologetically. Life works in many ways, and one must be prepared for unexpected changes. Always filled with anxiety, I feared what others would think and would cater to those around me in hopes of preventing any conflict. Although it was challenging for me to ditch our plans for the remainder of the week, I have absolutely no regrets. The second thing that I learned was the true meaning of spontaneity. My childhood self would have never imagined that I would spend a day abroad, wandering around aimlessly, with no plan, just going with the flow. I did end up doing the majority of the things that I wanted to do most, but it was pleasant not feeling like I was crunched on time and choosing the order of what I wanted to do as the day went along. I also enjoyed it when I steered off course and found hidden gems. Friday morning, I traveled to Primrose Hill and wandered around the beautiful neighborhood. Swooping in and out of random shops, I found myself getting lost in one particular gift shop

for a bit of time as it contained a small, hidden room full of books near the back. I sat on the sofa and stared at the wall, skimming over the spines of the books.

surrounded by gorgeous pastel-colored buildings, I decided to sit on a bench and stare out into the open. A child giggled as her mother pushed her on the swing, and two men spent some time exercising. I felt serene here. After deciding that it was finally time for me to go, I visited the iconic Platform 9 ¾. I figured that I needed to visit at least one Harry Potter site while in London.

After some time had passed, I wandered into a narrow shop filled with gorgeous flowers. There, I found my new friend, Parker! The store owner and sales associate were extremely friendly and chatted with me for a bit before I went on my way.

The end of the street conveniently popped me out at Chalcot Square, which was a garden that I wanted to visit. In a cute little square garden

Following the station, I visited Oxford Street. Although there wasn’t much time left in the day, I was very grateful that I did not spend nearly as much time as I had originally allotted for Oxford Street. It ended up being all too overwhelming for me, so I picked up some Jo Malone cologne as per my mother’s request and hurried along. Before leaving to head back to the hotel, a Gong Cha (a bubble tea franchise) caught my eye, and I popped in to grab a drink. I wasn’t sure what to do with the remainder of my evening/night until I remembered Brooke’s invitation for anyone to join her for dinner. This was the best decision I ever made. If you were to force me to select one meal that I could have again from the week in London, it would be Dishoom. Best. Indian. Food. That. I’ve. Ever. Had. In. My. Life. I am not going to attach any photos because the pictures that I took don’t do the food justice, but the flavors 111

were IMMACULATE. One bite and we were all gone into another world. I don’t think I can get Indian food elsewhere ever again.

Jam A few weeks before we left for London, Mary told the group to be careful when we stole the jams. Try not to take them all, she said, before launching into a story about a group that managed to steal every jam on the breakfast tray—and, as we can to find out, there were more than twenty (more than thirty?) jams on the breakfast tray every morning. The hotel staff had actually spoken to her, telling her that, while they would look the other way if only a few jams went missing, an entire tray’s worth of jams was not acceptable. I remember feeling confused; was the jam really so good that stealing it was worth risking the wrath of the hotel staff?

Overall, I would highly recommend solo traveling to all who are considering it. This was the first time I had ever wandered on my own, and if you have a lot of anxiety, as do I, I promise it isn’t nearly as bad as you think. I have a terrible, terrible sense of direction, and I somehow picked up on the Tube navigation system and found my way around. You start to loosen up and become more trusting of your surroundings. As much as I enjoyed traveling with the group and bonding with others, I have a vivid memory of walking downstairs having time to myself offered new insights and Sunday morning. In my mind, there is light perspectives on the world, and I enjoyed and chatter. Breakfast is laid out across two traveling at my own pace. There was so much tables: biscuits and bread, ham and cheese, that I discovered not only about myself and eggs and mushrooms and so, so much jam. They put it on a rectangular plate covered in a London, but the world. And as corny as it cloth and they packaged each serving sounds, I truly feel like London had a individually, in glass jars less than an inch tall significant impact on my mental health. This that opened with a strangely satisfying trip made me realize how big of a world it is yet popping noise. I helped myself to everything I saw, paying extra attention to the array of how small it can be at the same time. Life is too short toFiller stressfor over“The minute things. I found a Art” pg. 56 jams. It was memorable, delicious, and Funny Thing About debatably the best thing I ate in London. new meaning in living life to the fullest. I want While I didn’t work up the courage to sneak to explore. There are certain things that you the jam home with me, I completely learn while traveling that cannot beColumbia learned Road Flower Market understand why someone would. is ridiculously beautiful, Filler for “The Funny Thing About Art” pg. 56 —Hannah Fraga elsewhere, as the experiences and people you and great for people-watching. Be warned: colorful, you will be very tempted to buy basically everything you see; encounter are what shape your newfound I was dangerously close to full-sending on a baby pineapple knowledge. Filler for “The Funny Thing About Art” pg. 56Market Columbia Road Flower ridiculously beautiful, plant. It’s onlyis open on Sunday afternoons, but is well worth colorful, and great for people-watching. Be warned: you the priority! will be very tempted buy basically everything you see; -GinnytoHannahan Columbia Road Flower Market isaridiculously beautiful, colorful, and I was dangerously to full-sending onbeautiful, baby pineapple Columbia Road Flowerclose Market is ridiculously great for people watching. Be warned you will be tempted to buy plant. It’sand onlygreat openfor onpeople-watching. Sunday afternoons, is wellyou worth colorful, Be but warned: basically everything you see; I was dangerously close to full-sending on the priority! will be very tempted to buy basically everything you see; a baby pineapple plant. It’s only open on Sunday afternoons, but is well -Ginny Hannahan close to full-sending on a baby pineapple I was dangerously worth the priority! plant. It’s only open on Sunday afternoons, but is well worth -Ginny Hannahan the priority! -Ginny Hannahan

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Improv Traveling By: Brooke Blankenship

When it comes to traveling, I am a planner. I always believed the best way to visit a city was to make a list of everything I wanted to see, then piece together an itinerary. However, that did not quite happen this time. If I am being candid, I was extremely overwhelmed during the weeks leading up to our adventure to London. Eventually, I had to accept that for this trip, I would be traveling improv-style.

Improv-style traveling means that I got on a plane to London prepared only with the knowledge obtained through class activities, the location of our hotel, and one scheduled dinner date with my cousins. I admit, when we first arrived, still in a daze from the overnight flight, all I felt was exhaustion and panic. I had to fill an entire day with zero ideas on how to do so. Before I could let the panic take over, I decided to prioritize my needs, the first being to find some food. Wandering out the hotel's front doors, a few of my classmates and I picked a direction and took off. Eventually, we found our way to a block of restaurants, stores, and art galleries. It was during this meal that I began to get excited about the potential to find more neighborhoods just like this one. Suddenly, one week did not seem to be near enough time.

Over the course of the week, I continued roaming the neighborhoods of London, ﬁnding more and more reasons to love this wonderful city. Without a schedule, I was completely free to stay in a bookstore for hours, wait in an obnoxiously long line for a doughnut that was totally worth it, journal at my new favorite cafe, and even take an afternoon nap absolutely guilt-free. This was a new mode of traveling for me, and I liked it. All of my exploring accumulated to what I consider a perfect day in London. Saturday morning, I began my day with a walk down the twisting streets of the Kensington neighborhood. I had discovered this walk earlier on in our trip when I went on an adventure to ﬁnd an old Catholic church I had heard about. The area features white Georgian-style homes accented with red brick sidewalks and lush green park squares. Children race ahead of their parents on pink and blue razor scooters, construction workers drill into the centuries-old brick in hopes of restoring it, and individuals can be seen in their large bay windows hard at work and oblivious to life happening beyond their computer screens. Taking this all in, I eventually passed a small cafe with tables under a deep blue awning and chairs facing the quiet street. After ordering my English Breakfast tea with toast and jam, I sat down to enjoy the scenery, deciding to watch the locals as they traveled to their next destination. Shortly after sitting, an elderly woman in a wheelchair began making her way toward the cafe. As she approached, I helped move the chair and table out of the way so that she had a place to park her chair. After thanking me, she introduced

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herself as Sarah and told me that she has been living in London for nearly 50 years. We spent the rest of the morning talking about her life in the city and how it's changed over the years, her trip to Dallas, TX, and current politics. After a wonderful morning, I moved on to my next activity; the Portobello Road Market. After twenty minutes of navigating the tube, I arrived in Notting Hill and I began my walk in the general direction of the market. I quickly found that this part of town was significantly busier than the quiet Kensington neighborhood I had just left. Following the crowds, I made my way to the open-air market where I, unfortunately, fell in love with a number of things I did not need to buy. Pro-tip: Go to the market at the beginning of your trip, not on your last day. After bouncing from vendor to vendor, I settled on purchasing a scarf and a fiery red leather purse before finding my way to a wine shop I had passed earlier on in the day. At Franklin’s wine store, I got a window seat with a great view of the market, a large glass of St. Joseph’s Marsanne from Rhode Valley, France, and made friends with the sommelier. I spent a couple of hours people watching from my window seat and getting to know Darius, the young sommelier who lived in the SoHo area of London, before deciding food would not be a bad idea. The only place I had yet to visit was the Borough Market, a personal favorite in London with numerous options for lunch, so I decided to make my way there. When I arrived at the Borough Market, I quickly realized my phone had about one percent left of charge. I could either head back to the hotel immediately or be brave and experience the city without my personal navigation device. I took a chance with the second option and am very happy that I did. I tried some Jamaican food and met two girls my age

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who had just taken jobs in the city. Neither of them had been to the States before, but they hoped to visit in the next few years. After asking me endless questions about my favorite cities and the diﬀerences between London and home (which was a very long conversation), we parted ways. With the wonder of the day still fresh in my mind, I began the trip home by navigating via signage and memory. I got back to the hotel without a single mixup in directions and made my way to our last group dinner.

Franklin’s Wine Shop

As I reﬂect on my time in London, I decided that traveling without a plan does not result in a feeling of “FOMO”, or fear of missing out. Rather, it creates a variety of authentic experiences. As a returning traveler, experiencing the city with no plan and an open mind will create opportunities otherwise missed in the rush to reach the next planned destination.

Happy Trails From Seaford to Eastbourne By: Emme Bina Giddiness

was the only emotion I

could muster regarding the hike of a lifetime. I had not questioned anything, nor did my anxiety reveal itself. I knew everything was going to be okay. I had complete utter trust in the situation. A week before we left for London, Ginny and I decided to travel on Friday of our trip to East Sussex and hike along a portion of the Atlantic coastline known as the Seven Sisters Cliffs. The natural wonder of the barreling chalk cliffs was incredibly fascinating to me, as one who a) is minoring in geology and b) loves hiking and exploration. I could already sense this freedom of being engulfed in nature, leaving the madness of the city behind. Ginny and I did not plan much of the excursion. All we knew was what was on our purchased train tickets. Friday morning at 08:24, we would leave the Victoria train station in London to travel to Seaford, a small coastal town in Sussex. Later that night, at 19:35, we would leave Eastbourne, another coastal town in Sussex, and travel back to London, Victoria. You may be wondering, why are you leaving from a different town than the one from which you came? Great question, curious reader. You see, Ginny and I thought it was the most marvelous idea to hike from Seaford to Eastbourne, approximately around an 11-13 mile hike depending on the path taken. The Friday of the hiking trip came. When Ginny and I got to Seaford, we realized that we did not have any plans or knowledge of how to get to the cliffs. We passed by a coffee shop within the dinky train station and decided to get a caffeine

fix. We started talking with the owner of the small local establishment and a man who was drinking a pint of beer. Their amiable characters shined through the conversation. They informed us that we needed to take the bus to the Seven Sisters Cliffs trail and described where that would be. After drinking our americanos and snacking on the paired Biscoff cookie, Ginny and I headed for the bus stop. With the help of the lovely bus driver and an enthusiastic park ranger, Ginny and I climbed through fields with roaming cattle to get to the proper trail South Downs. “Awe, an ode to my Freshman dorm,” I thought. And so, our true journey began.

View from the South Downs trailhead

From afar, the cliffs did not look difficult an easy walk in the park, you could say. But when I reached the first uphill, the hike became exponentially more daunting. I kept losing my breath throughout the first climb, swearing to myself and wishing I had packed my inhaler. Only if I knew at the moment, the incline was a taste of what was in store for me. Once Ginny and I reached the peak of the first cliff, we split a chocolate chip

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cookie from M&S, which we had purchased that morning. At this elevation, I looked behind me, from where I had been. It was absolutely, draw-droppingly breathtaking. The coastline was blanketed in sandy beaches. The vibrant green rolling hills were not too far on the right. On the left, the ocean was gleaming with its icy blue tides. I was completely transported and immersed in a magical oasis. That battle up the cliﬀ was worth it to see nature in all of her glory, her beauty. It is most deﬁnitely not a view that you can get in London.

similar to that of Ginny’s. I lifted my head and began to wander and to notice. I watched the tides and thought of the marine life in those waters. I would look at the cliff edges (from afar, of course - it was illegal to stand on the edge) and think about the geology of the chalk - how it was formed and the weathering process it continuously endured. The ground was littered with various rocks all around the path, so I would take a break and admire them. I found a shell buried within the soil. I pondered on how in the world it found a home on top of the cliffs when it originated from the sea below. During this time, I was able to converse with strangers on the same path as me. Approximately halfway through the hike, beautifully simple structures accompanied the breathtaking coastline. Eventually, we reached a hiker’s pit stop. A rocky beach lay past the building, so Ginny and I went to eat our pre-purchased lunches from M&S by the water. Being able to relax by the tides, sipping on my protein shake, and reading my Harry Potter book was exactly what I needed to become energized once more. We soaked in this leisure and then embarked on our second round of cliff climbing.

Ginny and I on the trail

Thanks to the mystical powers of the chocolate chip cookie, I completely dominated the next couple of cliﬀs. However, I began to crash, and my energy and will to conquer the next set of cliﬀs diminished. I could not focus on the actual exertion I was enduring. I had to focus my attention on something else. It was not hard to search for this distractor. It was, in fact, the nature around me and the present moment. I began to listen to myself. I began to not harshly pace myself up the succeeding hill; I freed myself from the attention of keeping my pace

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Ginny hiking past the buildings.

worry, we had approximately four hours to reach this destination. (We conquered the hike much faster than expected!) Ginny and I explored the streets of Eastbourne and ended up at a bar on the pier.

Filler for “At Home in a Foreign City” pg. 13

View of the rocky beaches where we ate lunch

And so, the hike of a lifetime became transformed into a day dedicated to total trust, the present moment, and exploration. As the saying goes, “It is about the journey, not the destination.”

There was no way that there were only seven cliffs; it felt like the cliffs were never-ending. (We would find out later that the Seven Sisters Cliffs were neighboured by more cliffs that we would have to conquer). Nevertheless, my mind continued to be occupied by reflections and wonderment. You can learn so much from nature; it inspires and evokes queries and realities about life and our Earth. (I will not bore you with the details of my internal inquisition.) Our journey continued for three more hours. Along the way, we passed a lighthouse and memorials for those who served along the Sussex coast during the World Wars. Most importantly, we walked by fields of sheep and cattle. A town along the coast became more visible as we continued along the path. It was not long until Ginny and I realized that the town was, in fact, our final destination Eastbourne. By the end of the hike, Miley Cyrus’ song “The Climb” became our theme song. The ascents and descents of the cliffs gradually came to a halt with a subtle decline to the town.

The Seven Sisters Cliff hike has left an indelible mark not only on my calves, but in my memory. It provided the perfect venue to befriend herds of somewhat domesticated sheep; gifted me with enough lock screen photos to last a lifetime; and gave me the opportunity to buy a Tawny Owl whistle for 10 gbp at a gift shop in the middle of nowhere. -Ginny Hannahan

All of a sudden, we entered modern-day civilization once more. It was a peculiar feeling not to be immersed in the magical reality that nature provides. Nevertheless, Ginny and I were not ﬁnished with our walking journey. No, not even close. We had to ﬁnd the train station for our departure back to bustling London. Not to

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Type A Personality becoming a Type B Traveler By: Sarah Lynne Jackson Type A vs Type B. As little as 12 years old and starting middle school, I learned the importance of organization and structure in everyday life. I learned how lists, bullet points, calendars, scheduling, and planning were a way to give your life some guard rail, and I loved it. I loved the certainty and the dependability of being able to look at a list and know the answer to my questions. As I moved on to high school, I became more entrenched in my organization, and I made it a skill I could benefit from. I made lists with due dates for homework, study guides, and reading schedules. I even sent out calendar dates to prospective babysitting employers so I could effectively earn money without compromising my schedule. This very quickly became how I ran my life all the time, not just in school but during vacations, traveling, extracurricular activities and clubs, and eventually as I entered college. This is typically what one would call a “Type A” personality. It also encompasses, according to most definitions, competitiveness, organization, impatience, urgency, fast pace, and goal orientation. While I would like to say not all of these apply to me, they do. So one would expect that for a big trip like the London Review, I would be planning from day one. You would guess that I would be organizing, planning, and determining what every day and every hour of the trip would consist of. In all honesty, I expected that myself. I thought if I sat down and gave it a couple of hours, I would have the whole trip planned with reservations, tickets, schedules, and even a diagram of how to pack my bags. I

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expected this because I loved doing it and I am proud to say that I choose to live my life this way. But as it got closer to our departure date, I didn’t have anything more than a gloried bucket list.

Oxford, London England This “bucket list” was just that: a list of things I wanted to see and what day I might want to see it. Beyond those details I had nothing thought out. Not a single ticket was bought, addresses weren’t looked up, travel times were a mystery, and food locations were nowhere to be found. If my name was not on it or if someone came across it, they would never guess that it was all my planning for the London Review. I expected the trip to be somewhat disappointing; I worried that my days would escape me and that I would feel as though I needed more time in the city. But that wasn’t the case.

Ode to the Geese in Green Park O’ Beasties, Rest ye spirits in the soft Earth Where the worms coil about and Your beaks, orange in fury, Find purchase. Do not stare, Not into thine wrathful gaze, Gully of wine and dark. Over thee, the sun burns brightly. Betwixt our eyes, understanding. Do not feed the geese.

Richmond, England; a suburb of London

Lessons Learned. Every day turned out to be perfect from the beginning. Even if my plans weren’t conﬁrmed by the end of breakfast, somehow the day still managed to be perfect. There were even some cases where the day would steer so far oﬀ course from the original plan and my friends and I would get lost in the city somewhere. But by dinner, it would all be perfect anyway. I managed to see everything on my bucket list while I was there, and I didn’t have a single regret as I boarded the plane back home. Other than wanting to stay forever, of course. All of this to say that I was surprised by the self-discovery I made while on the trip, and continue to make while writing this book with my peers. That self-discovery was this: I can still have fun and be successful without knowing how I will get there. I realized I planned so I could try and predict the future. I thought if I knew every step of the way that I would get there and get there faster and better than everyone else. But this trip taught me that there is no “right way,” and it isn’t a competition at all. Rather, it’s a constant surprise and an amazing journey to be on, even if the destination is unknown.

— Ashleigh Waggoner

Oldest Movie Theater in London By: Zack Green

Though others were enthralled by live theater, I’ve always been a bigger fan of the silver screen. And while Hollywood dominates the movie scene nowadays, British cinema has always been a strong undercurrent of the film scene. Regent Street Cinema, which opened in 1848, presented the first motion picture ever shown in the United Kingdom and birthed British Cinema. So, when I was presented with the opportunity to visit one of the oldest movie theaters not just in London, but in the World, I knew I had to go. The single-screen cinema has been in operation for over 150 years. I was lucky enough to be the only person attending the afternoon showing of the movie of the day, The Batman, which made for one epic viewing experience.

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“O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.” Hamlet, Act II, Scene II

I’d been looking forward to visiting London for some time. The idea began as an inkling of knowing, nested somewhere in my gut, that the UK would be a place I’d feel good in. Mary gave substance to this knowing last spring. It was then I told her of my “bad dreams.” In the spring of ’21, I had a serious match with depression that drove me home to Texas. I was feeling distant from KU and losing hope. Mary told me, “next Spring, we’ll go to London.” The Hot Priest in BBC’s Fleabag consoles Fleabag’s broken heart with, “it’ll pass.” And in this case “it”--time– did pass—summer, fall, then winter (of course never without inlaid bits of drama and bad dreams.), but London was in my eye. And, somehow through time’s persistent churn, we were carried along. I was on the plane—moisturized, benadryled, besandwichèd. The program offered freedoms that are scarce in university-sanctioned activities—like the ability to set our own schedules and drink with our professors. Nevertheless, I let my freedom be stymied the first few days of the trip by a doe-eyed, center-parted waif with an obstinate will to see monuments to every eminent Anglo as obscure and esoteric (maybe only to narrow minds, he’d argue) as Charles G. Gordon (?). We had battling sensibilities about travel, namely that I like to stroll, take in the senses, and discover. He prefers to shoot forth his steps like arrows, attempting to square a

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mental bullseye on every vitrified landmark. Or, if you’re more critical of my sensibility, I like to dilly-dally, mope listlessly, and drag my feet in laissez-faire resistance, which wholly ascertains my essential feminine folly to float through life rather than put my stamp on it. Semper femina, so am I.

Look closely and you’ll see a contentious figure.

I turned harsh judgment on my insistent need for quiet retreat. Why can’t I be faster? Why can’t I do more? What’s wrong with me? I cried a little in my hotel room. I met with Mary for drinks. “You are who you are, even when you travel,” I supposed. Without the natural anchoring conditions of chores, drives to school, and regular eating patterns, we are boiled down to our most natural instincts. It’s like survival with manageable threats. “Mind the Gap,” we are told. That’s easy enough. “Do you think I’d live if I laid on the tracks?” Weston asked. “No, probably, you wouldn’t.”

Battling Defenses. Things shifted in Oxford. I’ll admit I felt a little jealous of Sam’s exuberant genius, felt some gnawing, “what ifs” when he relayed the joys of his college dinners and led us through manicured courtyards touched by stars. I was once at my own prestigious institution modeled after Oxbridge. I’m sure enough people have heard the stories of my bygone era to recount them in detail here. Once again I felt myself making internal defenses for my own choice of being. For all the intellectual rallying I do against these “monuments to Western civilization,” it’s hard to deny the appeal of studying with all of recorded history at your feet.

the tottee). I can recognize now that it might have been too hard for a meandering river and a metamorphic mountain to coexist. I’d carve my space through him, maybe, in 20,000 years. “Tear the monuments down,” I yell! “Get out of the water,” he cries! A mountain will only yield to the river if he lets some of his guard down; a river will only push her mountain with force.

Radhia and I on the Thames.

I’m different now because I had to accept that my way of doing things is ok. I met up with friends from Yale who were in London, either resident or transient. We bonded without shame or restraint. Forgiveness is letting go of the hope that the past could be different. I am good the way I am. In a world that sets great men in concrete and Victoria in gold, I’m just f*cking water, making my own flow.

Issy, my roommate and closest friend from Yale, gesticulating.

Someone once said intelligence is holding multiple truths at once. I can still yearn for the beauty and prestige sometimes, while also knowing that my constitution was too soft and sensitive to survive it. This is true, I learned, in relationships too. He is a beautiful, intelligent force that I toted proud as a parasol (though to unbriefed onlookers I might have appeared as

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An Interview With a Guard By: Sam Schaper “Hello there! My name is Sam Schaper. I hope you won’t mind me asking a few questions Mr. … Royal Guard, is it? Can I call you Royal?” “...” “Great! Well, Royal, I really just want to get a sense of what it’s like working at Buckingham Palace. Would you say that you’ve had a positive experience here?” “...” “Right, right. Well, I’m glad! Was it tough to land a job in this position or are they really not too choosy about it? Well, I assume they wouldn’t take just any Tom, Dick, or Harry that knocks on the gates asking to protect and serve, but—well, why don’t you just tell me what the process was like?” “...” “Really! A test, you say? My, that sounds diﬃcult. You know, I took the ACT a couple of times and—” “...” “Oh, sorry, yes. The ACT is a standardized test that shows colleges whether you’re a… oh, what’s a word you’d understand… yes, whether you’re a wanker or not. Anyway, I took it a couple of times, never got quite the score I wanted, but it never determined if I’d get a job or not. That’s some pressure!” “...” “Yes, you’re right, of course. So do you like working here?” “...” “Too much standing, huh? Well, Royal, though I do empathize, I feel that that might have been something you should’ve expected. At least you’re able to talk! My that would’ve been a… what do you people say? A right, proper bore, that would’ve been, that. Most of your colleagues, I ﬁnd, though aren’t much for talk. You’re the chattiest one I’ve found so far. Do you get on with them well?” “...”

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“Oh, you don’t say. Which one is he? Oh, yeah, he wouldn’t talk to me either. Well, you can’t let the gits get you down, am I right? Did you see what I did there?” “...” “Oh, stop it, Royal, it wasn’t that funny. Please, stop, you’re making me blush. Back to my questions! I must ask, have you ever met the queen?” “...” “Really! On her way to class? Good Lord, I never would’ve pegged her for the kickboxing type. Impressive, little thing, isn’t she? So what is your opinion on Meghan and Harry?” “...” “Oh, Royal! There really isn’t any need for that kind of language. People ought to be entitled to live their lives the way they want to, oughtn’t they?” “...” “Well, I’m just sad to say then, that our opinions differ in that regard, Royal, and I would’ve hoped after such a long and enduring friendship that you wouldn’t get so nasty with me so quickly.” “...” “Oh, so now you’re giving me the silent treatment, huh?” “...” “It’s quite alright, Royal. I accept your apology. No, Royal, I really do mean it. It's just the Thames under the Tower Bridge now.” “...” “Oh, come on now, Royal, there is no way I am the funniest person you’ve ever met. You do flatter me so! Well, I must ask, where would you say is the best place to get some good fish and chips around here?” “...” “Well, that does sound delicious! I’ll swing by and pick you up after your shift. Bring it in, you big lug.” “Sir, I will arrest you if you come another step closer.” “Oh, Royal, you’re such a tease.”

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Books, Books, Postcards and More Books By: Naomi Madu

efore London I couldn’t remember the last book I read, when or where that was. Now,

I’ve read two books within two weeks of each other, created a Goodreads account, and bought three more since I’ve been back. I always saw the trip as my reset button, but I didn't expect to be returned to my factory settings. I read a lot as a child, and very quickly too, so I would just read even more. This was a hobby I haven’t been able to sustain since starting college, so I was surprised to find myself adding bookstores to my list of things to do. I was mostly interested in discovering queer, feminist and/or pan-african literature. I thought of bell hooks, Assata Shakur, Audre Lorde. I thought of endearing, queer YA romance, of modern African literature. Still, I had my doubts. Even if I bought a book, I probably wouldn’t read it. It’s the reason I put down The Sex Lives of African Women by Nana Dakoa Sekyiamah just last week at The Raven bookstore, even though I felt it. The spark, or connection, or whatever it is that calls you to a book and binds you to it forever.

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Pictured: Gay’s The Word Bookstore.

I had been called to that book and on a particularly lukewarm day at Oxford, it was on my mind. We had been told about this treasure of a bookstore, Blackwells, and traveled there to marvel at its riches. I always thought that to enjoy a bookstore, you had to have something in mind and that day I certainly did. I, however, had almost no intention of actually buying it so I was a little surprised to find that my search soon intensified. The longer it eluded me, the longer I yearned for it, until I finally broke and checked the store’s inventory online.

I showed off that book at the pub later.

I found myself. I also found some really campy postcards.

Pictured: Not-so-hidden treasure from GTW.

As I perused the shelves of Gay’s The Word and later Waterstones, I felt myself pining for the peace and fulfillment of passing your time with a book that opens your mind. I remembered the vulnerability I felt reading Fruit of the Drunken Tree by Ingrid Rojas Contreras and the power of literature to connect you to people of different backgrounds and cultures. Most of all, I was missing the comfort of envisioning women like me in African books. Women who spoke the way I did and navigated the same relationship dynamics as me. I looked for these feelings in these bookstores and I found community, inspiration, hope.

Pictured: The British Library.

Filler for p. 86

London Legos It doesn’t matter how far you travel from home… there’s always a place for you in a Lego store! We visited the Lego store in London and were by no means disappointed. The first thing we saw walking in was a giant Lego Big Ben, reaching up past the second floor! To complement this tower, there was also a life-size telephone box, an Underground replica with Shakespeare sitting inside, and a huge mural of London spanning multiple walls. However, the ambience wouldn’t be complete without the music. In the background, lyrics from Teen Beach Movie floated to my ears. This put the cherry on top of the entire experience. It really did feel like home. -Audrey

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Leaving Comfort for London By: Major Copeland

I ﬁnd comfort in familiarity and routine and anything that goes against that can be extremely stress-inducing for me. I had never really considered traveling abroad before this opportunity for fear of the unknown and a break from what I’m used to. When I committed to the London Review I didn’t freak out like I thought I would. The decision deadline was so many months before the trip and I convinced myself that it probably wasn’t going to happen because of the current state of the world. In the months before the trip it seemed like a dream to fantasize about but nothing that would be reality. As the trip grew closer I started to realize that it wasn’t a fantasy but I was actually going to be in London, and this was the beginning of my stress and worry. I had gone on a few trips and vacations when I was younger, but I had never been outside of the United States. This trip was completely out of my comfort zone and it made me very uneasy. I would lay in bed at night worrying about all the things that

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could potentially go wrong. I had so many fears about this trip and it prevented me from being genuinely excited. Besides being in a completely foreign place, my biggest fear was that I was going to be with people that I didn’t know very well. I knew a few people from previous classes but I wasn’t going with anyone I felt extremely close to. I thought I would have a hard time making friends, and I wouldn't have anyone to share my memories with. Fortunately, there was one person going on this trip that eased my nerves slightly: Aubree. Aubree and I had been in an English class together and I was so glad that there was someone that I was familiar with. We had talked before outside of class and she was the only person I felt that I could relate to. I never could've imagined how much fun we would have together on this trip. Someone else who made this trip worthwhile was Ashleigh. I didn’t know her before, but I’m so glad that I know her now. The three of us spent a lot of time together, and I feel like I made some of

my best memories with them. Something that I didn’t expect before this trip was how close I felt to all the different people I spent time with. While Aubree, Ashleigh, and I spent a lot of time together, it was also fun to experience unique adventures with other people on the trip. From the first moments at the airport, everyone was really friendly, and I was surprised by how easy it was to have conversations and get to know each other. Aubree and I were able to sit next to each other on the first flight which eased my anxiety and made the idea of going on this trip a lot less daunting. It was strange. The farther away from home I got, the better I felt. I think the longer I was gone, the more I proved to myself that I was capable of having a great time away from my safety net. This gave me the confidence to enjoy myself and forget about all the stresses and anxieties I had. From the moment we landed in London I realized that I had worried for nothing. This was one of the best experiences of my life, and I’m so glad that I didn’t let my nerves get the best of me. I am extremely proud of myself for seeing this journey through and I am beyond grateful for everyone that went on this trip with me and made it more enjoyable. I realized that there is an entire world of opportunities just outside of my comfort zone waiting for me, and I can’t wait to discover them.

A University Mirage I thought I had a very distinct image of a college town before traveling abroad. Not necessarily how it looked, but how it felt: the constant buzz of studying and deadlines, the rush of students late for class, how distant and scary it all was. When I imagined the trips to Oxford and Cambridge, I thought they would feel the same because I’ve never experienced anything different, but they were completely their own. They felt calmer and more tranquil. It seemed as if time had stilled, and everyone was living in their own little pocket of time. There was so much history around me, and I couldn’t help but marvel at how unfathomable it all was. In Cambridge, I sat on the lawn amongst students laughing and enjoying their day, and I imagined what it would be like to lounge in the shadows of these ancient buildings, with the qualms about professors and workload feeling distant yet so close. I savored that moment and felt truly happy. I romanticized endlessly and made memories that I will cherish forever. I know now, looking back, that nothing was how it seemed. Challenges would present themselves, just as they do here, and everything would lose its ethereal glow. But something about going to these places just for a day, relishing in that brief pocket of time, left me longing for more. I will never forget those two days, losing myself in a world that wasn’t my own and wishing, however briefly, that it was. The idealized version of my life at one of these colleges is an unattainable mirage… but it was fun to pretend. -Major Copeland

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Acting Up in London. By: Mackenzie Gregory

I’ve always been a camera-shy kid with stage fright. I was never involved in theatre. However, something has always attracted me to the idea of being an actor. As a writer interested in creating stories and characters, I guess one part of me wants to not only create characters on the page but bring them to life through the art of acting as well. I particularly became interested in the stage after my love for Shakespeare grew in 10th-grade literature class. I wanted to play one of the beloved Shakespearean heroines like Viola or Desdemona. In a city full of theatre like London, it is no wonder that this love of mine got to ﬂourish, and it led me to make a fateful decision back here in Lawrence. The week we got back to Kansas, I did it. I declared my theatre minor. For a while, I had been looking at a few theatre classes I thought of possibly taking for my own personal interest. However, I was discouraged by the fact that they were only available to theatre majors and minors. I was hesitant to fully commit to a major or minor because I didn’t think I was theatre material and I wasn’t sure if I could ﬁt it in with my other studies. But the shows that I had the opportunity of seeing in London fueled me with inspiration and encouragement, and I went for it. Seeing Back to the Future: The Musical at the Adelphi Theatre was the musical side of my theatrical experience in London (which I go on about in my other article, Get Thee Back to the Future). Along with theatre, I love music and singing, so it’s a perfect combination. The actors and music were amazing, and beholding such a wonderful musical makes me wish I could be up on stage singing away as well. I’ve decided that I will try to incorporate

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musical theatre classes as electives in my minor. However, as someone with a passion for Shakespeare’s plays, it was the performance of Hamlet at the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse that was even more inspirational.

Statue of William Shakespeare in Leicester Square

I was thrilled when it was announced that we would attend this great Shakespearean tragedy. Being my favorite play of his, I was very eager to see a live performance of it. It was an interesting interpretation and set on a beautiful candlelit stage. The actors embodied the characters well, and they interacted with us in such an effortless and natural way. I felt that we were a part of their world. The atmosphere and the interaction made it feel so authentic, like how Shakespeare’s plays were meant to be performed. I dream of one day having the chance to play the role of Hamlet. He is such an intriguing and complex character, and it would be a fulfilling opportunity personally, artistically, and professionally. I know it’s definitely not the first role

Filler for p. 79 someone may imagine me in when they look at me, but many women have portrayed this most renowned Shakespearean hero throughout the centuries. There were even a few women in male roles in the production we saw, which was very encouraging for someone with my aspirations. What we see from the trailblazing women of the past and especially in today’s theatre is that conventions are being broken down. In the times when this play was written, women couldn’t even act on stage at all. Now, we all have the freedom to act outside the box of social conventions. If there is a role you were made for, go for it. I got a lot out of my theatre experience in London besides entertainment. I will take my ﬁrst acting class next semester. I don’t know if I would have ﬁnally made the decision if it wasn’t for this incredible week in London and the shows I got to see. It will be an experience I will never forget. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll be back in London but on the stage instead of in the audience.

A Well-Hidden Exhibition One day as we were exploring London, we stumbled upon a clear little building with nothing but an elevator visible inside. On it were bold red words claiming: “London’s Hidden Cafe: Crypt.” It also listed cafes, concerts, exhibitions, etc that were available inside. Of course, we were curious and walked in. Underground, we found an adorable little gift shop which we promptly plundered. After spending an appropriate amount of money on touristy goods, we tried to find the exhibition advertised from the street. But alas, all we could find were empty prayer rooms, a cafe, and some guards standing in front of a hall labeled “Gallery.” When we asked where we might find the exhibition, they responded claiming that they knew nothing about any such showing. Suspicious? Definitely. What are they hiding in that gallery?? -Audrey

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K-Town Edition: Finding My Seoul in London

By: Anne Kim

hen coming up with a list of things to do during our stay in London, it never crossed my mind that the UK might have a Koreatown. Knowing how culturally diverse London is, I don’t know why the thought never occurred to me to search for a Koreatown, but I was so thankful to have stumbled upon it. In the last-minute attempt to seek some underrated finds, I searched for things to do on TikTok (I know what you’re thinking, but I figured Gen Z would have some neat ideas), and that was when I came across the greatest suburb: New Malden. I was anxious to travel to New Malden as this would be my first time wandering alone while abroad, but the second that I stepped foot into New Malden, it felt like a second home. The first thing I did was grab a late lunch (I was starving after exploring The Science Museum in the morning and then going to The Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Museum right after… By the time I got to New Malden, it was around 4:30 pm). I decided to eat at a 치맥 (chimaek) restaurant– a combination of the words “치킨” (chikin; chicken) and “맥주” (maekju; beer)– which is the term that Koreans refer to when eating Korean fried chicken and beer, a very popular combo in Korea. To my dismay, the fried chicken was nowhere near as good as Korean fried chicken elsewhere.

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The perfect ratio of tender chicken to crispy batter was there, but where was the sauce and flavor?! The main differences between Korean fried chicken and American fried chicken are: 1) Korean fried chicken is glazed with “yangnyeom” (a sweet and spicy Korean sauce) and 2) the frying process. In my opinion, Korean fried chicken is superior (you can’t beat the crispiness… If you haven’t tried Korean fried chicken, you are seriously missing out. I highly recommend a spot in Overland Park, KS called “CM Chicken”). Given the fact that the fried chicken at this restaurant had no

yangnyeom was a severe disappointment. I have included a photo for reference anyway because it was a cute meal (especially the SPAM fries). Also, I will admit that I was so hungry that I scarfed the meal down anyway (even accidentally eating a bit of the paper in the basket– unintentionally of course). Once I had replenished my energy and was rested, I made my way toward H Mart. H Mart is a large Korean-American supermarket chain that is typically found in the states (apparently the one I went to is the largest H Mart in London). While it may have seemed silly of me to go to a supermarket during the short week in London, there was much sentiment and emotion tied to this market for me. As a child, entering any sort of Asian market was such an exciting experience as I got to explore and find the foods, snacks, and drinks that you couldn’t find in your typical American market. So, as you could imagine, heading into this H Mart was very nostalgic for me. There is even a book titled, “Crying in H Mart”, that delves

into the cultural and personal significance of the author, Michelle Zauner. Side note: I learned of this book's existence through a friend that I made in Blackwell’s after bonding over Korean literature, so thank you to Ilaria for this recommendation. Traveling to H Mart was quite the journey. For some odd reason, having to stop in the middle of the road as a train passed is a memory that will forever stick with me. It was lovely being surrounded by all of the locals and observing them. Initially, at the crossroads, I was behind a father and his two children on scooters. Then, a pair of friends appeared behind me. Before I even realized it, a whole group of people had gathered, ranging from families, bikers, and the like. I also recall smiling to myself as the window of a car next to me rolled down and a boy yelled to one of the children on the scooters. The little boy riding the scooter laughed and exclaimed, “Oh my god! What are you doing in the car?”, so I assumed they were classmates/friends. Finally, the train had passed, the arms lifted, and everyone was going their separate ways. Before I got to H Mart, I had to pass through an alley that seemed sketchy at first. Then, I realized what a peaceful and safe walk it was as many locals were passing by. I passed a Korean man and his child (I almost forgot I was in London until I heard the man scolding his child in an English accent), a woman hurrying along to wherever her next destination was, and a different pair of children riding scooters. Before I knew it, I was at H Mart!

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The photo seems anti-climactic, but I promise you that the market is larger than it appears in the picture. I was overwhelmed with all my favorite childhood foods and I sadly had to resist the urge to grab a cart and wipe the shelves clean. I spent about an hour in the supermarket and even circled it twice (the shelves are so packed that you always find new items that you missed the first time around) to soak it all in. I spent quite some time in the section with miscellaneous items like kitchenware, stationery, etc., and didn’t realize how much I missed finding such cute and random items.

toward Korean middle-aged women) that was at the register. Sadly, this encounter did not go as planned and instead of impressing this woman and initiating small talk, she asked where I was from, making sure to note that she noticed my Korean American accent all while laughing. Embarrassed, I didn’t talk for the rest of the time checking out, sheepishly grabbed my items, thanked her, and scurried out.

I ended up grabbing a few things and as I was checking out, I rehearsed some Korean in my head in fear that I would screw up my greeting to the 아줌마 (ajumma, a term that is referred

To wrap up my day in Koreatown, my last stop was at Cake & Bingsoo Cafe. I was craving some 빙수 (bingsu, a Korean shaved ice dessert that is extremely different from American shaved ice. If you have never tried bingsu, there are a couple of places in Overland Park, KS– I Am Frozen Dessert Cafe and Bingbox. I recommend I Am Frozen Dessert Cafe) to satisfy my sweet tooth. I savored my last moments in Koreatown, eavesdropping on a group of peers as I ate my bingsu.

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To my fellow Korean Americans attending future London Reviews, I highly recommend visiting New Malden. It hit home for me. I would also recommend visiting Koreatown for anyone who would love to experience a glimpse of Korean culture and cuisine. Another hidden gem that is a must, but not found in New Malden, is a Korean Self Portrait Studio in Queen’s Yard called Cheeez. A self-portrait studio is a concept that originated in Korea and is extremely popular among all ages. With a click of a button, you take your own photos. It is an enjoyable experience, especially for anxious individuals who have always dreamed of avoiding awkward encounters during photoshoots and wanted to take their own photographs. Huge tip: do NOT type “Cheeez” into Apple maps. When locating this place, be sure to find the actual address on Google and type that into your maps app. Apple has the incorrect address for Cheeez and Major and I landed in Queen’s GATE rather than Queen’s YARD. I accidentally rang the doorbell at a poor woman’s house, asking about my photograph reservation only to find her dazed, confused, and bothered. Thankfully, the girl working at Cheeez was extremely kind and forgiving and let us keep our reservation despite being an hour late. Needless to say, it was both Major’s and my first time needing to get an Uber. Thank you to London for allowing me to have a day in Korea. I felt like that day was a 2-in-1 kind of experience where I had the privilege of studying abroad in London while making up for the Korean study abroad trip that I missed out on due to the pandemic. New Malden: 10/10.

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Learned Ladies of London By: Ginny Hannahan

Ironically enough, the takeaways I express in what follows are not specific to London; in theory, they could have occurred right here in Lawrence. In actuality, though, it was the shared setting of this trip that made these interactions possible. None of these ladies offered elaborate arguments or finely crafted rhetorical strategies; they simply spoke humbly and openly in casual conversations about their personal experiences. I won’t detail what was said by each of the following role models I present but rather will focus on the examples these learned ladies have impressed upon me. I pass them on in what follows—not to supplant real-world engagement in the lives of my readers or to argue for certain conclusions—but to share my own real-life experiences in hopes of encouraging others to do the same.

Radhia It was during our Sunday morning class walking tour of Kensington that I had the pleasure of meeting Radhia. I found myself almost instantaneously in awe of this peer of mine. Radhia pursues her interests unapologetically, without concern for titles or accolades. She strives not only to engage actively with the world around her, but to ﬁnd solutions to its most complex of structural problems. Perhaps most impressively, Radhia refuses to be pushed into a box or made to be one-dimensional, prioritizing her well-being and happiness.

Mary Prior to this trip, I thought I knew Dr. Klayder reasonably well. She has helped me write personal statements, mentored me in my undergraduate research

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endeavors, and oﬀered countless hours of career advice. It was while chatting over the breakfast table, however—overtaken with tea, croissants, and most importantly, jams—that I got to know Mary. In learning more about her, I also gained greater insight into what it means to be a leader. Leadership—in its most potent form—is founded upon genuine care for those whom you are leading. Throughout the trip, Mary was in tremendous pain from a severe hip injury, not to mention the undue stress of managing twenty-three college kids in a foreign country during a global pandemic. Despite all this, you would never have registered the slightest strain through her interactions with any of us; only during morning chats could you glean indirect snippets of the personal challenges she was facing. She never complained, not wanting to burden us or take away from our fun; she never sought to impose but was also fully present and eager to meet us where we were.

Sarah Despite receiving Sarah’s emails through KU Honors, I had never met her in person, much less spoken to her. Over light-hearted exchanges in the parlor, I enjoyed befriending the madam behind the messages: a lady unfathomably learned in seemingly every topic relevant to history, art, and their preservation and celebration via museums. Sarah incorporates and maximizes these gifts in her balanced approach toward each day: learning from the past with eyes on the future whilst anchoring herself within the present moment. The equilibrium she continually maintains is rare, with even measures of thought-provoking analyses and an exceedingly approachable, jovial ease.

Brooke B. It was only over a post-dinner gelato run that I got to know some of Brooke’s story. She had quite a bit on her mind during this trip, trying to decide whether to work or attend graduate school; to live abroad, or stay close to home. In observing how she weighed her options and explored diﬀerent possibilities, I was awed by how calm and forthright she remained throughout the whole process. She was incredibly humble, not only open to guidance from anyone—even ostensibly less experienced students on our trip—but bravely seeking it out.

Ava I met Ava—a student from Texas doing a semester abroad through her home university—during our class visit to the Globe Theater. During our exchange, I couldn’t help but be inspired by her conﬁdence; even though she didn’t have anyone to go with, she had no problem attending the play alone. She loves Shakespeare, so she went to see a Shakespearean production. On a larger scale, she dared to switch her major from Biology to English despite being well into her degree path; she loved writing, so she chose to study English. Ava refuses to let extraneous circumstances dictate her future. She is not only spending her time doing what excites her but is intent on excelling in her chosen ﬁeld. Through Ava’s experience, I now see that there is nothing wrong with changing your mind, so long as you embrace your decision and allow it to transform how you live.

participation in the London Review set the stage, allowing us to take a day to hike the Seven Sisters Cliﬀs from Seaford to Eastbourne. Emme and I both love hiking, but it became clear that we enjoyed it for diﬀerent reasons early on in our adventure. I love the fast-paced adrenaline rush of ascending; Emme loves the opportunity for leisurely contemplation and appreciation of natural beauty. We both recognized the dissonance, but it was Emme who took the initiative to verbalize it. She simply told me, “I’m gonna go at my own pace so I can enjoy this.” In this single, honest statement, she reminded me not only of the importance of transparency but also of balancing my wants with those of others. Conformity is not inherently good or bad but instead must be evaluated critically and contextually.

Being Ladylike There were undoubtedly many other remarkable individuals I was fortunate enough to meet while on the London Review. These encounters, in particular, resonated with me so deeply in light of the common ideal with which they have presented me: women not only fearless in their authenticity but also in their willingness to inspire the same greatness in others. Far from feeling disappointed and disenchanted upon my return to the States, I feel excited and empowered to follow their examples.

Emme Emme Bina was the ﬁrst person I met when I started at KU and has since become my closest friend here. Accordingly, this particular experience is simply another bullet point on an ever-lengthening list of life lessons I’ve received through our friendship. In this speciﬁc instance, though, our shared

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A Little R&R By: Ashleigh Waggoner

Vacation is the liminal existence where even gravity pauses to allow a greater form of exploration and discovery. Vacation is when the future becomes now and every moment counts towards realizing every minute of planning and preparation. Amidst all the hustle and bustle of vacation, it's easy to get caught up in the wind of excitement and work yourself into such a flurry that breath escapes you. At least, vacation did this to me. I learned, very early on in the trip, that sometimes, it's necessary to stop and take a moment to catch your breath. Even on vacation, when the laws of the human body don’t seem to fully exist or bear their usual, heavy brunt, the need for rest and relaxation must be yielded to. After the chaos of travel and a full thirty-eight hours spent awake, I needed some time to recenter and find my bearings. I decided that my form of rest and relaxation would not take place at the hotel, sequestered amongst my pillows and blankets. Rather, I would use my afternoon to solo-travel to the Churchill War Rooms. Now, going into the museum, I hadn’t expected much. Honestly, I only went because I desperately needed some alone time and because I thought my dad might like something from the gift shop. Despite having very low expectations, or maybe due to this fact, I was astonished by what I found inside the museum. I found myself truly transported by the historical preservation of the rooms. I felt simultaneously restored, recentered into my own body, but also transported back in time. Accompanied by little other than myself and the auditory guidebook given to each guest, I spent hours roaming each small 136

room in the bunker, craning my neck around corners to see what other hidden treasures I might discover. Since their use in World War II, the War Rooms had remained a secret, concealed from the public until their rediscovery in the eighties. Upon their great reveal to the public, they were acquired by the Imperial War Museum, and after intensive inventory checks, the rooms were made open to the public, preserved to their original condition of that fateful day when World War II ended across Europe. My favorite anecdote, courtesy of the brilliantly narrated guided tour, revealed the true extent of preservation, or perhaps abandonment, that the Churchill War Rooms received. According to the original inventory checks, a Chief of Staff left behind his sugar ration, packaged and hidden in his desk so that nobody would steal it. It was the small details like this that made the War Rooms stand out to me. They did not seek to make a great display of heroism, but rather demonstrated the

courage and sacrifice of those select people—many of which were civilians prior to their descent into the bunkers—by faithfully telling their stories. Many of the people who worked in the War Rooms spent such prolonged periods underground, that weekly “sun-treatments” were mandated by the state, wherein the equivalents of modern tanning beds were used to treat sun deficiency.

I was incredibly grateful to have visited the War Rooms alone, despite how much I recommended visiting it to others. Being unhurried and fully able to take as much time as I wished was such a blessing for me on this trip. I felt reconnected to my love of history—to the average people who lived and fought for our present and future. The War Rooms, my favorite museum of the trip, presented the perfect opportunity for me to find an unusual form of rest and relaxation, dozens of feet below ground.

Extra filler for filler page? (Reshape as necessary) Phantom of the Opera I’ve been watching and rewatching the Phantom of the Opera movie for as long as I can remember. Never mind the fact that a child maybe shouldn’t have been exposed to the dark themes of stalking, threats, and kidnapping prevail throughout. So when I got the chance to see it performed, I couldn’t believe it. I was so excited. And I must say, the performance did not disappoint. The special effects blew my mind. Having only seen the movie before, I didn’t have high expectations for how a musical could possibly compare. But sure enough, the show began with a huge chandelier rising from the stage to hang above the audience. As it rose, it flickered and flashed, making it seem like it was precarious enough to crash down at any given moment. It stayed there throughout the show, until finally its dramatic wreckage occurred. My personal favorite effect was the moving voices. During the scenes when the phantom spoke to the other characters, he often remained completely hidden from them, so they could only hear his voice. Accordingly, the voice of the phantom sounded from all around the theater, so it sounded like he was right behind me at some points! I’m a little embarrassed to admit that, yes, I did turn around and expect to see an actor. Alas, no such actor was there. But it perfectly complemented the musical, which also takes place in a theater. These special effects made the experience so immersive! They were perfectly suited for a musical in which the audience sits in a theater just like the very one being haunted by the phantom. -Audrey 137

Hyde and Seek: The Very Hidden Gems of London By: Audrey Lehmann

For most of my life, I’ve been very aware of the fact that my spatial awareness is… lacking. Every time I end up being appointed the navigator of a group, it ends with lots of unamused laughs and side glances. By the time someone else inevitably takes over, everyone regrets placing their faith in me in the ﬁrst place. Despite this consistent failing, I really wanted to take advantage of my time in London so that I could explore a bit on my own.

circles. How could such a well-known landmark be so hidden from me? If you take the time to pull up Google Maps on your phone, you can ﬁnd directions from the Strathmore Hotel to Hyde Park. It’s quite a simple walk, only 17 minutes in total, with minimal turns. I had absolutely no business making such a trek out of it, but somehow I did.

One morning I woke up surprisingly early and found that I had some extra time on my hands before starting the day’s events with my friends, so after getting ready and stepping out into the warm sun, I navigated my way over to Hyde Park. Now, for those of you who know London’s layout, staying at a hotel in South Kensington means that you’re reasonably close to Hyde Park. One could easily stumble upon it by accident, but for me, finding my way was a feat in itself. I had briefly visited Hyde Park with a group of friends earlier that week, so I had a very clear vision in my head of where I wanted to end up—a cafe by the river, bustling with people and surrounded by a quiet hum of conversation. The issue was I had no idea what this cafe was called or how to find it on Google Maps, so I just decided to wander until I found it. I have to say, for such a large park so close to where I was staying, it took an embarrassing amount of time to reach. Thankfully, I only had to endure the humiliation of one complete 180° turn, though I did unwittingly make a few

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Once I ﬁnally made it to Hyde Park, I honestly felt accomplished enough that I didn’t much mind having to search for a cafe. This was the best weather we’d had all week, and I got to soak in my surroundings as I ambled along the various paths. There were birds everywhere, which was lovely, but also made me nervous. However, these nerves were counteracted by the abundance of dogs walking around leashless! I tried to imagine my own dogs wandering around this park and decided it was utterly

unattainable to ever imagine a future where they’d be well-behaved enough to try. I found the fountain memorial for Princess Diana and took a break to walk a lap or two around it. Children were playing in the fountain, and I overheard their adorable, audacious remarks to their parents. After several more turns and confused looks from passersby, I finally made my way over to the cafe. With a deep exhale, I was finally able to order and sit down. Finally able to enjoy a hot ciabatta sandwich, an americano, and a new book. What I had intended to be a peaceful morning read in the park had turned into yet another walking-heavy trip, but I was okay with it. I took out the book that I’d bought earlier this week and opened it to the first page.

three people were discussing their plans for the day, trying to work around each of their busy work schedules. Apparently, one of them had to be back at the oﬃce soon. To be one of these people, simply living life as one does in London! I had expected to be bombarded by the sheer Britishness of the city, but once I got past the accents, it was clear that I was surrounded by very mundane happenings. And yet—I basked in this mundanity. I wanted to be a part of it. My convoluted journey did eventually result in a lovely bit of reading. In enjoying my morning in this way, I was able to feel like one among many in the city.

Ashleigh’s Reviews Pizza Express:

But reading was not on my mind. The quiet hum of conversation was too interesting to me. Rather than focusing on my book, I honed in on the dialogues ﬂoating through the air. Behind me, I heard a group of boys discussing something in a diﬀerent language, perhaps German? I sighed inwardly, imagining a world where I was multilingual (London had me thinking this way quite often). To my right, a woman read her book quietly. To my left,

I ate Pizza Express at least six different times on the trip. From several locations around London to the Cambridge Pizza express— all across the board—you’re sure to have a stellar dining experience. Their pizza was decent, but if there’s one thing you purchase there, for the love of God, let it be cheesecake. Each iteration seemed to be better than the rest. On a more personal note: Pizza Express Man, thank you for the free cheesecake. I love you. — Ashleigh Waggoner

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The City of Big Ben By: Emme Bina

measurement of change. Change is continuous and unavoidable. Everything around us evolves. Sometimes it occurs at a micro-level; at other times, at a macro-level. Time continues until, well, it continues when it ends. Time continued past the ancient civilizations of the Iraqis and Greeks, past the existence of Nineveh, and past the creation of the Rosetta Stone.

Before crossing the sea headed for London, I purchased an anthological book at a local bookstore - Watermark Books - in Wichita, KS, titled Poems of London. (An extremely creative title - am I right, or am I right?) While skimming through the pages, I spotted the poem “The River’s Tale (Prehistoric)” by Rudyard Kipling. The poem enfolds the history of London from the perspective of the River Thames. From the Ice Age to the settlement of the Danes, The River Thames witnessed time pass around her banks. Her waters flowed through London - flowed through time. As someone majoring in engineering and who also reads Stephen Hawking for leisure, I cannot help but think about the definition of time. Time is the

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London encapsulates time. The River that tells the tale of the treasures of London’s history continues to meander through the city. London’s streets (some of which are still cobblestone) are decorated with over 150 museums - remembering and educating what once was. A continuous tick tock echoes throughout the Clocks and Watches rooms in the British Museum. Buildings of new and old dazzle the skyline, creating a painting depicting the evolution of civilization and innovation. The Tower of London stares at the Pret A Manger across Great Tower Street. (Does the old welcome the new? Or does the old just tolerate it?) One of London’s most iconic buildings is a clock tower, for goodness’ sake. Time continues. This fact became increasingly more real while walking the streets of London, thinking of all those who have walked the streets before me (Brink of an existential crisis, possibly?). Time will sweep over my passions, my accomplishments - it will pass over me. My mind zoomed outward, thinking of all the people, cultures, innovations, extinct creatures, and countries that once existed and are long forgotten. I could not help but think how minuscule my tests, lab work, and even GPA meant in the scheme of things (a

cursed sentence in the Honors world). I began to gain perspective on how little I am in the weave of time. (Existential crisis conﬁrmed.) Does what I do, even in London, matter? Does my life matter? It took me a moment to recuperate from this rabbithole of thoughts. Then, I came to remember that life is a gift. Time is a gift, but like all gifts, it can become too much to bear - when all of our motivation and focus are engrossed in how much time is left. The best way to receive this gift is through the “now.” This present moment. This present paradise, if you will. It can be quite a struggle to remain in the present, especially for me. However, after this crisis, I realized that it was exactly what I was doing while in London. I realized that my typical anxieties did not haunt my thoughts as frequently. I did not worry about my coursework or my daily life stresses back in Lawrence. Instead, I focused on what was presented right in front of me. And that was London. By remaining in the present, I could immerse myself in my surroundings. From noticing the coﬀee cup disposal systems that littered the streets to the very popular camel-colored wool trench coats paired with wide-leg jeans, I made observations of the city and its people that I would not have otherwise. Wandering the Central London streets without minding the time or direction was one of my favorite pastimes. (It is honestly one of the best ways to tour the city.) You never knew what you would see in the streets, the people - the stories you would walk past. Yet, time progresses onward. Thursday afternoon, Ginny Hannahan and I roamed the London streets after eating an exquisite lunch at the Borough Market. We walked by the Millennium Bridge to the outskirts of the Tate Modern along the bank-side of the Thames. That is when I heard a beautiful rendition of

“Ain’t No Sunshine” by Bill Withers (shoutout to the movie Notting Hill) and was immediately transported. Moments later, I found myself leaning against the railing along the River and listening to a street musician of the name Francesco. After another melodious cover, Francesco began to sing “What A Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong. My being became completely immersed in the gift of that present moment. I turned my back to the Tate Modern and watched the glistening waters of the River Thames, she who has seen it all. Birds soared across the clear blue skies just above the water. My ears soaked up the sweet sounds of “I think to myself what a wonderful world” and chattering Italians. Just for a slight moment, it felt as if time stood still.

Ashleigh’s Reviews McDonalds: The one and only. The apple of the world’s eye. McDonald’s— found in every corner and crevice of the earth. Of course I went. Late night McDonald’s after a long day of travel hits different. It was an explosion of mass produced flavor inside my mouth. The Sprite is just as powerful— dangerously carbonated—across the pond. My burger was perfectly well-done, my fries crispy. In essence: perfection. Subjectively, McDonald’s got five stars. Objectively, probably three. — Ashleigh Waggoner 141

Slacking Off and Other Good Ideas By: Hannah Fraga

I thought it was a good idea to do a competitive CrossFit workout after less than two hours of sleep, a time change, and an hour-long ruck across the pebbled streets of London. About two minutes into the workout, I realized I was wrong. I could barely think, let alone push myself. Every movement was mechanical. Just don’t get injured, I thought to myself. Don’t get injured and keep moving. I’m always nervous before dropping in at a new CrossFit gym. Each gym has a different way of doing things. You don’t know whether you’re dropping in at a community that likes to talk during warmups and sometimes during the workout itself, or if you’ve stumbled into a gym where members attack each piece of the workout like they’d rather die than finish second. Coaches always pay extra attention to drop ins, so you know your form will be picked apart and that they’ll watch you, constantly, during the workout. There’s pressure to do well, to push yourself to failure, and I usually find them to be incredibly intense workouts. It’s part of the fun. I dropped in at CrossFit Tribe London. The gym was tucked into an alleyway in a residential area. The streets were cobbled, the sky grey, and I walked with my hands tucked into my jacket sleeves. I’d left my gloves in my suitcase, but my backpack was packed so tightly I worried that the zipper would break. The next day, I would have a raised wound just below my neck from where the straps of the backpack had chafed against my skin. Getting to the gym was always a hassle, so I only went twice.

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It was a smaller gym than I expected. Our equipment was crammed tightly together—tight enough that I worried about dropping a barbell on the woman doing burpees across from me—and we had to share pull-up bars. It made it easier to start conversations with people. A man and woman doing the first workout with me told me that if I could only see two things in London, I should go see St. Paul’s cathedral and the Natural History Museum. I ended up not seeing either, but the conversation—food-focused, friendly, and filled with workout-related encouragement—left me with a good feeling about the people of London. The biggest challenge was the accents. With the music blaring, my own exhaustion, and the British accents, I found myself asking people to repeat themselves more than I expected to. The coach asked me to write down something on my scorecard, but I had no idea what he’d said. He ended up writing down another coach’s name for me and I had to google who they were to find out the correct spelling. Dropping in at a CrossFit gym is a way to get to know the city itself. It gives me a sense of the people and how they interact. What would it be like to actually live in London? I probably wouldn’t be taking food tours and visiting the Tower every weekend; I’d be working, working out, taking the tube, walking around the city, pronouncing Gloucester and Worcestershire like I’d grown up in London. Part of the fun of traveling is getting to be a tourist, eating at restaurants every day and going to attractions—the London Eye, the British Library, the Tower of London—that you can only find in London. It always feels

indulgent to me. It’s the lack of work, the idea that all you are supposed to do in a new city is simply to get to know it and that somehow, by exploring and indulging, you will grow as a person. I’m skeptical of it. I like my time to serve a purpose. I always feel like I should be doing more. When I’m on vacation, I try to bring my routine to the trip: I write and work out obsessively. London was an interesting trip because I ended up slacking in both. I barely wrote. I barely worked out. I spent the whole trip feeling like I was flirting with disaster. If I don’t write now, I’ll never get published. If I don’t work out every day, my mental health will collapse. I returned from London and plunged right into a period of manic efficiency. In the week I returned from London, I’ve written more than I have in a long time. I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. My roommate said to me recently that she felt like college was meant to be fun. It struck me. Am I having fun? I don’t know; I feel like I’m always flirting with burnout and simultaneously never doing enough, but I can’t imagine living any other way. London was the same way: I felt like I was constantly doing things and it was never enough. Even now, I sit back and I wonder why I didn’t do more. Why didn’t I sit down and plan out my days with cutthroat efficiency? Why didn’t I make time to see Stonehenge and Windsor Palace, high tea and the Tate Modern, Highclere Castle and Cambridge? Why didn’t I travel to Paris? At the end of the day, I’ll never be able to do enough. Understanding that that’s okay has always been difficult. The moments that stand out to me from my trip to London are the things that made me feel something. The sheer awe I felt when I saw the crown jewels in the Tower of London, the shock and delight of stumbling onto Kensington Palace after

wandering around Hyde Park, the exhaustion and joy I felt when I collapsed onto the ground after ﬁnishing a CrossFit workout, and the irrational pride when my tour guide complimented my correct pronunciation of Gloucester. As much as I nitpick and wish for more, London was an incredible experience. At the end of the day, I’m glad I went.

Ashleigh’s Reviews Costa Coffee: At first glance, the vibes of this cafe are immaculate. There’s nice music and the aroma of fresh baked pastries provides a warm welcome on entrance. Unfortunately, the staff was quite rude, but this might be reduced to a miscommunication on behalf of our differing accents. The Chocolate Caramel Muffin was a stellar experience, even earning Best Bite of the entire trip. Congratulations Costa. On the other hand, the “Hot Cross Buns Hot Chocolate” was potentially my most regretted purchase—of all time. It was nasty. I tried to choke it down, Costa wasn’t cheap, but had to quit when I felt it churning in my stomach. Would have been three stars if not for the hot chocolate and the subsequent realization that their bathrooms were in dire need of maintenance. — Ashleigh Waggoner 143

At Home in a Foreign City. By: Mackenzie Gregory

My first time on a plane. My first time traveling outside the country. That is what this trip was for me. I’m just a small girl from a family that kept me sheltered growing up, so the idea of going across the pond for a week was surreal. Even on the plane ride there, as I counted the minutes slowly going by, it didn’t seem entirely real. But once I saw the plane lowering towards the London cityscape in the early light of dawn, it hit me: I’m here. I’ve been fascinated with Britain for as long as I can remember. Whether it’s because of my passion for British literature, the nation’s long and complex history, my British heritage, or the accents, I’m not sure, but I’ve developed a deep interest in the country. For years now I have been eager to visit it for myself, and not just read about it in my favorite books. When I found out about the London Review, I knew it was my chance. However, I still naturally imagined that visiting another country was going to be a challenge. I was worried about having to make my way around the big city alone, adjusting to the different currency, the different culture, and the inherent dangers of walking around the streets by myself as a young woman under 5 feet tall. But I soon

learned that nothing could be more natural for me. Even with all the differences between London and my home in the US, it felt so familiar. I felt like I belonged. I sensed this the first day as we made our way to the hotel and I got my first look at the city I have forever wanted to visit. This love especially blossomed as we took our walking tour of Kensington and Westminster. I just adore the gorgeous architecture. How I dream of pursuing my writing career while living in a picturesque Victorian-style flat, like many artists with their blue English Heritage plaques before me (like I’ll ever be able to afford it, though)! Visiting the iconic

London sites around Westminster, like Westminster Abbey, Parliament, and Buckingham Palace made me feel something akin to an adopted national pride, but maybe it’s my British ancestry. Along with visiting museums and seeing shows, it was simply walking around and exploring like this that gave the city its charm. I found myself in many different areas, some good and some bad, by traveling from place to place throughout the day. Two memorably beautiful moments for

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me were experiencing a sunset on a bridge over the Thames when walking back to the hotel and walking around a gorgeous square in Convent Garden at night after a musical trying to find an open Underground. There is so much in the atmosphere of the city to enjoy just by wandering. And one thing I love is how walkable and green a city London is. Especially here in America, more attention is given to cars, space to park them in, and streets to drive them on, than is to pedestrians, the actual people trying to live in the space. In London, it is at least easier to get around on foot. But even if you need to get somewhere quicker than walking can take you, there is dependable public transportation. Now, I did have a few incidents of getting on the wrong bus or tube, but I think I became at least sufficiently familiar with the Underground lines. Familiar enough to make my way around London. There is a reason I have always been drawn to the UK, and I believe I have discovered it in the London Review. This trip has grown my fondness for the country and will not be the final time I walk on British soil. In my eagerness to return, I will be visiting again this summer as a part of Dr. Klayder’s other study abroad program, the British Summer Institute. Plus, I am considering a semester abroad in the neighboring country of Ireland at University College Cork. And something is telling me that I’ll be back one day, for good. Maybe I’ll be writing my novels, or teaching at a university, or on stage in one of the many theatres, but one day Britain will be where I call home.

Ashleigh’s Reviews The Sherlock Holmes Restaurant: As one of the first restaurants of the trip, the Sherlock Holmes Restaurant set off on a strong foot. Located near Trafalgar Square, the establishment was a quick walk away from the St. Patty’s Day Parade. Staff was incredibly kind and invested in our travel experience. Note: there was much interest in tornados. Food was incredible. I definitely recommend the macaroni (classier than it sounds). Minus one star for the broken toilet seat—very hazardous. — Ashleigh Waggoner

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Act knew what my Ijob was, it was

to go out and meet the people and love them” Diana, Princess of Wales

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A One Way Ticket to Stonehenge By: Major Copeland

Spontaneity is not my strong suit. I don’t really “go with the flow” but instead, plan everything to the second. When Ashleigh, Aubree, and I decided to go to Stonehenge I was beyond excited. I had planned to visit Bath one day because I love Jane Austen and her novel Persuasion and when I had seen pictures, it seemed like a beautiful place that I wanted to experience. When I was researching how to get there I realized that it wasn’t too far from Stonehenge. Luckily Ashleigh and Aubree were willing to come with me to Bath and we decided to visit both on the same day. We planned to go to Stonehenge first and then explore Bath. We found that the best way to get there was to first go to Salisbury and then get a bus to Stonehenge, so we bought a one-way train ticket to Salisbury for £15. There was no plan after we got to Stonehenge and we had only a vague idea 148

about how we’d get to Bath. It seemed simple enough so we thought we would just figure out the transportation as it became necessary. Usually, if I do anything like this I am completely stressed about it, but I was so excited about everything that we were going to see that I wasn’t really worried about how we were going to get there. We left London at 7:10 a.m. for Salisbury. In Salisbury, we saw on Apple Maps that Amesbury was only about 8 minutes away from the stones themselves and thought that’s where we needed to go. When we arrived in Amesbury we quickly realized that there weren’t any buses that would take us to Stonehenge directly. I’ll admit once we figured this out, after walking somewhat aimlessly through Amesbury, I got a little anxious and I didn’t know what to do. If I was by myself I would’ve freaked out. Being with my friends made me realize that the situation wasn’t that dire but instead just a minor inconvenience. As we were trying to figure out if we could get an Uber or where we could catch a taxi, I thought about how this was all a part of the journey and I was

glad that I had two other people to share this experience with. We finally found a taxi and arrived at Stonehenge around 11 a.m. I was so glad that we made it and I couldn’t believe that I was actually seeing the stones. Even as I write this now I still can’t believe that I was able to visit such a historic site. It was a beautiful day and it was surreal to take pictures and admire one of the Seven Wonders of the World. It was completely remarkable. We went back to the visitors’ center and had lunch and hung out for a while. I got to enjoy a rock cake while having a great conversation and at that moment I realized how much fun I was having. I was so glad I came and I couldn’t wait for the rest of our day. We realized while we were at Stonehenge that there was a bus that would take us directly back to Salisbury and right to the train station. I think one of my favorite parts of the day was driving through the countryside and being able to see another

part of England that I hadn’t been exposed to yet. There were rolling hills and sheep and it was so serene and peaceful that I could’ve stayed there forever. When we got back to the train station we bought a ticket to Bath and arrived in the city around 3 p.m. Bath was absolutely beautiful and I think it was my favorite city that I visited on the whole trip. It seemed straight out of a Jane Austen novel and it exceeded every expectation that I had. It was the perfect mix of city and countryside and it wasn’t too busy. People were singing on the cobblestone streets and others were sitting outside and simply enjoying each other's company. We were able to see Bath Abbey and we visited my favorite bookstore of the trip, Topping & Company. We ended our day at a café and talked and had a book exchange. I have never been anywhere like it and I am dying to go again. Taking this day trip to Stonehenge and Bath may have been my favorite day of the trip. I was more spontaneous than I’ve ever been and I had the time of my life with some of the best people. I will never forget this day, and I can’t wait to go back and experience it again. 149

Stonehenge & Bath By: Aubree Chavez

The Ultimate Girls Trip When the thought of participating in the London Review became a reality, something at the top of my travel list was to visit Stonehenge. I knew going into the trip I was going to visit Stonehenge even if I went alone. When Major and Ashleigh expressed interest in going along with me, we created a very loose plan to spend our Friday traveling not only to Stonehenge, but to Bath as well. Major explained that Bath was the location of ‘Persuasion’ by Jane Austen, and Austen herself had been to Bath. As an Austen fan, who has not yet read ‘Persuasion”, I also decided to put Bath on my list of things I wanted to see. Two nights before Friday, the three of us sat in the hotel room trying to ﬁnd the cheapest ticket to Salisbury, the ﬁrst stop necessary on our trip to Stonehenge. Ashleigh found a ticket for £15, and we all decided to buy this one way ticket. Instead of planning out our day down to the minute, and buying tickets ahead of time, we decided that this one way ticket would be the only thing we did in advance. On the eve of the big day, we all went to bed early, knowing we would have to leave the Strathmore Hotel around 6:40am to catch our train that left at 7:10am.

Film Photo: Aubree, Major, & Ashleigh

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Waking up that morning I was not only tired from the extensive trip, but I was truly excited to go and see something that has stood, for what is to be believed, over 5000 years. I was also excited because with a recommendation from my friend Libby Elliott, we planned on going to Topping & Co, an independent bookstore in Bath, where we would hold a book exchange, idea courtesy of Ashleigh. The three of us met in the lobby around 6:30am and we left for Waterloo Station. Once we arrived at the station we ran into an issue where the app where we bought our tickets wasn't working. Luckily we got to the station early enough and were able to ﬁnd our QR codes and get on our train with ten minutes to spare. The train was nothing new to us because we had traveled by train the day before to Cambridge. We were able to get a table seat which is essentially a table with seats facing each other on either side. We all brought books so our hour and a half trip went by very quickly. Once we arrived at Salisbury Station around 8:50am, the wonderful Stonehenge was only 30 minutes away from our location, so we set oﬀ without any tickets. Following Apple maps, I directed us to a bus station in town where we boarded a bus that was expected to take 30 minutes to get us to Amesbury, a town only about 8 minutes away from Stonehenge Once arriving in Amesbury, when our bus driver missed two stops, we found out there was no way to get a bus from Stonehenge from Amesbury. Only an eight minute drive and we were stranded. After walking around aimlessly, I decided to call a taxi station. They told me that the next taxi would take forty minutes. Our options were to wait for the taxi or we could take a bus back to Salisbury to board a bus to Stonehenge directly. While trying to

figure out what to do, we found a taxi and were on our way to Stonehenge! Once we arrived we were able to see one of the most famous historic landmarks in the world. Stonhenge was massive. We walked the roped pathway and were able to see Stonehenge from all sides at varying distances. I was amazed at how each stone was different from the one it stood next to. Some stones stood like gates with other stones laying on top of them while others stood independently. Seeing the stones up close was something so amazing that it is difficult to try and explain. While stones showed weathering, and the landscape surrounding astonished me, it made me feel sad that there was a massive highway right next to this 5000 year old creation. Despite the small difficulty to get to Stonehenge, which was not really an issue, our trip to see Stonehenge was something I am so glad we did. Not only did we get to see Stonehenge, but after taking the direct bus back to Salisbury Station, we took a train to Bath Spa Station. After a little over an hour and a half, we were in the city where Jane Austen had spent time. Major, Ashleigh, and I walked to Topping & Co, first where I bought seven novels, two of those being for our book exchange. After walking around the town to find a coffee shop, we all ordered drinks and baked goods and exchanged books. The idea of the book exchange was a fantastic ideal because we got books that we thought the others would like. The two books I was given were books that I probably would not have picked up myself, but after being gifted them I was able to explore two different books that my peers thought I would enjoy.

Filler for p. 139

Topping & Co’s Book Table The entire trip to Stonehenge and Bath was one of my favorite experiences of this trip. Not only did I get to see three cities, a historic landmark, and indulge in baked goods and books, but I learned how to navigate the trains and buses with the help of Major and Ashleigh. I was able to the countryside of England, see experience a glimpse of life in smaller cities, and spend quality time with two girls whose time and company I genuinely enjoyed. When going to England, Stonehenge is one of the most incredible things you can do and I would not change my experience in any way.

“If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.” --Jane Austen 151

London 2007 vs. 2022 By: Aubree Chavez

On the day we left for London, my father, Joseph ‘Joey’ Chavez, emailed me ten separate emails about his trip to London in 2007. Within the emails he included a short paragraph with a photo in each email, showing what his trip had looked like. While on my own trip, I recreated each photo that he had emailed me as closely as possible, and was able to compare the locations using the two photos.

London River Cruise (2022) London River Cruise (2007) Having these photos and a short glimpse of what London looked like in 2007, was very helpful in my trip planning. Since I knew before my trip that my dad would eventually send me photos to recreate, I loosely created an itinerary that sounded interesting to me, but also included some places my dad had visited 15 years ago. My dad and I both agreed that seeing Stonehenge was something I should really try to do, so knowing that I was deﬁnitely going to see that, helped set my planning priorities on places in London. The few places I set my heart on seeing during the trip included both Kensington and Buckingham Palace, Princess Diana’s Memorial in Hyde Park, Big Ben, the National Gallery, the Victoria & Albert Museum, and other tourist attractions such as the London Eye, the London River Cruise, and the London Aquarium.

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Once I arrived in London I was surprised to see ten emails in my inbox all including not only the photos, but a paragraph about my dad's experience. Instead of opening all ten right away like I wanted to, I decided it would be more fun, and would help me keep track of my photo recreations, if I opened the emails when I was at the speciﬁc location. As the days went on I recreated the photos that had been taken 15 years ago and I mentally noted how I would respond. Once I had recreated all ten photos, on the last night of the trip I responded to all ten of the emails with my photos and personal experience. I am so grateful that my dad shared his memories with me and I was able to see the places he went to. It was also really incredible to share these memories with my dad and do the photo recreations.

Mirrors By: Brooke Ford

Someone sits at a dining table reading a message and smiling in a familiar way before replying and I love them I love them for being someone i don’t know There is a man in a fleece coat reading on the plane who closes his book in dramatic surprise, and re opens it to continue And a woman walking down the street with a scarf with a thousand little threads sticking out And a child scolding a suitcase that doesn’t wheel right I can feel something leave me and overlap with them The shared experience of pretending not to watch middle schoolers fight on the tube And a father clearing the sidewalk of tourists for their child’s tricycle to pass as they test out British accents And a woman meeting her mother for lunch next to me and gossiping about her nemesis co worker’s extravagant wedding plans I keep seeing mirrors and I know that more connects me to these people than any ocean In the bustle of the city on a corner filled with coats and umbrellas going past in a window seat of a cafe with a worker playfully throwing their napkin on a coworkers head and a child which counts the number of berries in their pastry as they pop them into their mouth to their mothers delight as they grab their child’s hands- thumb in tiny palm- to shake them in celebration It’s just soft silence And the sound of heart beats syncing up A thousand miles away

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London and My Mom By: Hannah Fraga

There were three things at the forefront of my mind throughout the trip to London: what my next meal would be, how much my feet hurt, and my mom. The reasoning behind the first is obvious: food is fantastic. Food when traveling is even better; unable to access kitchens and more boring—or healthy, depending on how you look at it—options, meals inevitably became my favorite part of every day. The second is because of the sheer amount of walking we were doing, so much so that my heels and shins ached every night before I went to bed. Why I thought about my mom is a bit less simple. I am one of those people who loved quarantine. Months where I didn’t have to worry about small talk and awkward silences? Yes please! My family has always been important to me and, although I like other people, I’m an introvert; I only need a few meaningful relationships to be happy. I feel like college students are supposed to complain about their families. We’re supposed to relish our independence, the absence of people telling us what to do, and the lack of judgment. I’ve never felt this way. If I could convince my family to come with me to college, I would. My mom was almost more excited than I was about the London Review program. She’d actually been to London, when she was only a few years older than I am now. She’d graduated from Northwestern and wanted to take a gap year before starting graduate school. She worked while she was in London, at a Middle Eastern publishing house, working on in-flight magazines for Egyptian airlines. She lived in an apartment with five other people,

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only one of whom she’d known before leaving. She used physical maps rather than an iPhone. With the money she’d made at the publishing house, she traveled for another three months, visiting Scotland, France, Greece, Italy, Austria, Switzerland, and Germany. My mom traveled to ﬁnd her independence. I’m not sure why I traveled. In my application essay, I said it was for my writing because, at its core, writing is about experiences. The more you’ve experienced, the more you can write about intelligently. Mostly, I thought it would be fun. I thought I’d make friends, write, and take it pretty easy. I imagined I’d go to an attraction a day. I’m not sure I was successful. I didn’t write at all in London. Interacting with the other students was always a positive experience, but at the same time, I don’t know if I’ll keep in touch with anyone after the semester ends. I spent more time out of the hotel than in it, clocking in with about two to four attractions a day. I’m not sure I had fun. When I ask my mom what she loved about London, she talks about walking through a neighborhood and stumbling upon a plaque for Thomas Hardy. She talks about the anonymity of a big city and the history of the place. She loved the parks—I did too—and how you could really go places on the weekend: Cambridge, Bristol, Oxford. She liked the reliability of the transport system. I wonder what I loved about London. Hyde Park, maybe, where I walked where I wanted to, got lunch at a restaurant by the lake, and read while I waited for my food. I loved stumbling upon a street

performer who juggled fire in Covent Garden or wandering inside Kensington Palace and Queen Victoria’s birthplace without expecting to. Like my mom, I loved the history of the place. Standing in the place a girl younger than me was executed, seeing the room where King Henry III’s elephant lived, avoiding a very large Tower of London raven—it forced me to reckon with how much history a single place could hold. My mom says London changed her life. She came back from the trip more independent and less self-involved—although I can’t even imagine her as anything close to selfish. I’m not sure how London changed me. My mom set off on her own for a week during her three months of traveling. I set off on my own on Thursday and never quite rejoined the group. There was something special about the raucous joy of the first few days, but I look back more fondly on the days I was by myself. I do like our group. We represent a variety of interests, ages, and majors. Everyone is kind and fun to talk to. But I feel like I barely know people. In my opinion, the first half of the class wasn’t structured to nurture friendships. It was very lecture-based and, while there’s nothing wrong with that, I don’t think it lent itself well to forming bonds within the class. I wish I’d been able to get to know people better. But with that said, my favorite day of the trip was Thursday, the day I set off on my own, and the day I could do whatever I wanted. My mom had the same experience; on her own, she made her own schedule, picked her own activities, and paid attention to what she wanted. I came into this trip thinking the only way I could study abroad was with a group. To my surprise, I think I would have had a better time had I simply gone on my own.

The day before we left for home, I went to the British Library. The room was cool and dark, a security guard watching by the door. There was no food or drink allowed inside. Jane Austen’s writing desk was in a glass display along with several other artifacts. My mom and I have watched several Austen movies together—both versions of Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, and Emma—and anything Austen-related is always bound to make her happy. I sent her a picture. She responded with a moderately ridiculous amount of exclamation points. Knowing my mom went to London before me made the trip more meaningful. It was a bit like stepping into her shoes. London wasn’t a scary, unknown city where I would inevitably get lost without access to the internet. London was the place my mom found herself when she was my age. I’d walked where she’d walked, stood where she stood, and I’d seen what she saw. Did I have fun? I don’t know; the constant movement, the rush to get from one place to the next, the social pressure I put on myself—I had diﬃculty relaxing. But I am grateful I went. Maybe one day, my mom and I will go together. Filler for p. 84

Penny-Farthing Sighting While strolling around Buckingham Palace, the group I was with spotted what looked like a unicycle! Needless to say, a double-take was necessary. There was a group of about ﬁve men, one of them wearing a tophat, riding around the palace. But who rides unicycles around the city? Upon further inspection, however, we realized that there were actually two wheels. One was huge, while a much smaller one followed behind. This was a classic bicycle, known as a penny-farthing. Someone in our group called out and asked, “Why?” But of course, the only response we got was a simple, “Tradition.” How very British. -Audrey

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Family Ties By: Brooke Blankenship

Four years ago, fresh out of high school, I convinced my sister to hop on a plane with me to visit the intriguing city of London. It took only a few short hours for me to fall in love with the dusty cobblestones, lively pubs, newly erected skyscrapers, and thousand-year-old structures housing modern-day companies.

champagne burned the back of my throat and brieﬂy brought tears to my eyes. After that hiccup, dinner proceeded with a series of delicious courses, ending with the grand ﬂourish of Baked Alaska. It was magical.

Everything I could ever want was available to me in London, including family. Growing up, I knew about a man named Jason, who lived in London and took my older cousin under his wing when she decided to brieﬂy move to the city. What I didn’t know was exactly how Jason and I were connected. I met him a few times during my childhood, but as a 7-year-old in a large family, people were always coming and going, and I struggled to keep them all straight. Despite this vague memory of exactly who Jason was, in 2018 I reached out to let him know my sister and I were coming to visit London and were hoping he would be willing to serve as our tour guide for a half day or so.

The beloved Twinkles in 2018.

As we all made our way back to Jason and John’s ﬂat, we happened to pass the majestic lions of Trafalgar Square. Jason felt the view from the ground was simply not good enough and convinced us to scale the tail of the giant lion and pose on its back for one of my most treasured photos to this day.

For Jason, “half a day” was out of the question. Instead, he invited us into his home for two weeks, took us on a day trip to Windsor, and treated us to a lovely dinner at the Ivy, a posh restaurant in Central London. Jason and his husband, John, ordered us all Twinkles, an Ivy specialty cocktail, to toast to my newfound love of London. At 17, I was a novice drinker, so it was no surprise that the cocktail’s exotic mixture of vodka, elderﬂower liqueur, and

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Trafalgar Square in 2018.

After returning home to the States, I decided to learn more about my family and how I am connected to these incredible Londoners. Memories of past family gatherings and a quick phone call to my cousin Denise helped me piece together a brief history of how my family got to know Jason. My great Aunt Betty, mother of my cousins Sharon, Brad, Denise Jacki, and Cindy, was a native Londoner who witnessed world war II first hand. During the war there was an endless stream of young American military officers coming to the clubs and wooing the women of London with invitations to dinner. My great Aunt Betty was young and beautiful, so it didn’t take much for Uncle Barney to quickly fall for her. After exchanging addresses, they continued to write to each other and stay in contact as the war progressed. Determined not to let Barney slip through her fingers, Aunt Betty made her way from the bright lights of London and arrived in decidedly rural Canalou, MO, surprising my Uncle Barney. They married shortly after her arrival, and eventually had five children. Aunt Betty returned “home” to her native London periodically through the years, and in 1981 my cousins got to know their English cousin Jason, the son of Aunt Betty’s brother Joe.

and got to know them by playing games late into the night and showing them around his city by day. This trip was the beginning of a lasting relationship between Jason and my cousins. Through the ensuing years, this circle of family expanded to reach my parents, myself, my siblings, and even close family friends. It is with this knowledge that I returned to London four years later. This time I was traveling with my London Review classmates but made sure to schedule a dinner date with Jason and John. We returned to the beloved Ivy Club, and this time, the Twinkle went down smoothly. (I had time to practice since my previous visit.) As for the Baked Alaska grand ﬁnale, it was as magical as I remembered. But rather than climbing the mighty lions of Trafalgar Square, I had a peaceful, reﬂective walk home along the quaint and dusty cobblestone streets, with my heart and belly full of gratitude for this wonderful, lively city I fell for a mere 48 months earlier.

Jason was a young child when his Missouri cousins ﬁrst met him, but he left a lasting impression upon my family members. When Denise brought her mom along on a family visit to London in 1994, Jason moved out of his ﬂat for two weeks so that Denise and her husband plus their two children and mom Betty could stay there. But once again, rather than seeing them only once or twice during their stay, he took advantage of this family connection

The Ivy in 2022.

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MCI - LAS - DIA - LAX - LHR Radhia Abdirahman

I took off from the Kansas City International Airport at 5:30 A.M., two days before the rest of the class, towards Las Vegas in an attempt to get away from one of the biggest snowstorms of the season. I refused to be even a day late for this trip to London and was willing to travel as long as possible to make sure I was there on time. I went from Kansas City to Las Vegas to Denver to Los Angeles to London; by the time I got to London, I had been traveling upwards of eighteen hours and had to check and recheck my bag at least three times. Once I landed in London, I immediately connected to the London Heathrow Airport wifi in an attempt to call my mom on WhatsApp and try to figure out who was picking me up from the airport. For context, I hadn’t seen the extended family I was supposed to meet with since I was eight years old, so I wasn’t sure who I was looking for. After getting my bags from the carousel, I tried to find an area close to the exit, close enough that I could be noticed but far enough so I wasn’t in the way of all the other travelers who seemed used to the chaos of LHR. Once situated against a wall next to a set of elevators, I began to panic-text my mom for more clues to identify the people picking me up, and as I was about to call her for the third time in 20 minutes, I heard my name being called. I look up to see a Somali couple, both of them smiling ear to ear, walking toward me. “Radhia!! How was the flight?” “You look just like Hoyoo; it's like a mini-Khadijah standing right in front of me.” “You’re so big now! Do you remember the last time you were here, and we went to the London Eye?”

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“How are your parents? How are the boys?” I was so jetlagged, I tried my best to keep up with the rapid-fire questions and follow behind, who I realized were my second aunt and uncle, as we exited the airport. We drove around London and saw some neighborhoods on our way to their home in South Hall. For the next 48 hours, I was introduced to family I never knew I had. Cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandmas, who all seem to remember me when I was younger (that I had no recollection of). It was nice seeing everyone and spending time with extended family, learning about what life was like for them in the UK, and comparing it to what it's like in the US. I thought it was fascinating to compare my family's experiences in the US versus that of my family in the UK. Both sides emigrated from Somalia around the same time and chose to relocate to different countries; I found myself thinking about the decisions our grandparents made and how they influenced the generations that came after them. My cousins and I are both a part of the first generation of the Somali diaspora raised outside of Somalia. I loved getting to reconnect with my family and sharing stories about our childhood and very different college experiences. They showed me a very different part of London: we walked around neighborhoods with Masjids on every corner and shop signage with at least two languages. I loved the diversity of South Hall, and how Muslim-centric it was; I’ve never seen a neighborhood like it before.

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Surface Pressure By: Ginny Hannahan

I have yet to see the movie “Encanto”, but I teach at an elementary afterschool program, so I am quite familiar with the infamous Disney soundtrack. Hearing the song “Surface Pressure”, I can’t help but relate to the singer’s increasing sense of anxiety; her sense of self-worth is so tightly bound to her accomplishments it suffocates her This is something I’ve struggled with for years, and over time, it’s taken quite the toll on my mental health. Although the accomplishmentsI used as a gauge of my value have changed over the years, it is a habit from which I have been unable to fully divest myself. Since beginning college, my metric has been academic success. As a second semester junior, I find myself increasingly faced with the question of what my degree will amount to after graduation. What will I accomplish? Who am I going to be? What am I to do with the rest of my life? This was the baggage weighing me down as I crossed the Atlantic. As a senior in high school, I had felt a similar—albeit less intense—weight during my college decision process. Back then, I was fortunate enough to receive guidance and support from one of my teachers, Helen Maduka. She showed me how to put aside other peoples’ expectations and focus on making the decision most in line with my character and values, and I am forever indebted to her for that teaching. A native Londoner, Helen had moved back home shortly after my high school graduation, greatly limiting our ability to stay in close contact. In going on the London Review, I knew I would have the chance to be reunited with one of my most admired role models. Aside from the excitement of seeing my old friend, I also had a glimmer of hope that her wisdom 160

might once again guide me through this difficult period. Our afternoon spent wandering around central London did not disappoint. The first few hours of our conversation were enlightening in their own regard, spanning discussions of gun control, monarchical systems of power, colonialism, sexism, racism, and much else. Each of these topics deserves an article in itself, and although unique insights were shared, each subject ultimately ended in relatively seamless agreement. In the midst of these pressing matters, my stress subsided as my gaze shifted outward. As the conversation became more personal, though, my glance once again turned inward; the pressures I felt quickly burst to the surface. In contrast to what I considered to be some of the most complex aspects of my existence, Helen’s response was simple: “It doesn’t matter what you do.”

Helen and I at Westminster Cathedral

Days later, I found these words still reverberating through my consciousness, right alongside the voices echoing through the cavernous halls of the British Museum. As I perused the museum’s vast collections, I was struck by the breadth of human experience and expression on display. With an increasing sense of bemusement, I couldn’t help but marvel at the placement of humbly crafted works of lifelong labor placed adjacent to grandiose relics of greed and violence; there was a sense of equality amongst these artifacts, despite origins contrasting in nearly every respect. No civilization—much less a single man—can withstand the force of time. The pursuit of things like power and renown are ultimately futile, instrumental goods to be grasped for a moment at best. And yet, so many—spanning history and geography—fall victim to this illusion, and in turn, victimize others. It was in this realization that my conversation with Helen came full circle: material accomplishments of any sort are illusory; it’s not about leading a “grand” life dictated by societal standards of success. The mere remnants of individuals striving for this accolade in their own time and place is evidence of the uselessness of this approach. Happiness does not reside in the “what”: what I do—on its own—cannot fulfill me; it’s the “why” and the “how” that make all the difference. Why do I want to pursue this degree/career? Is it to bring about intrinsic good in my life and the lives of others? How do I go about my work? Do I do so with joy and ease, or strain and anxiety? These are the questions I am capable of answering, and these are the things worth pondering as I consider my next steps. I won’t pretend that all of my worries have been assuaged with one walk and a quick trip to a museum; I still struggle to put aside the pressure I so habitually heap

upon myself. Through these experiences, however, I have gained not only a more accurate perspective on my life and the choices I face, but a far healthier one. I not only know that my worth is wholly independent of my accomplishments, but I now believe it. This epiphany of sorts has brought not only comfort and liberation, but clarity. I may still lack a precise answer to the ubiquitous “what are you doing after graduation?”, but I am confident in my desire to be that guiding voice of consolation for those facing similar insecurities. What I want to do may still be in the works, but I have a pretty good idea of who I want to imitate in solving that problem: my good friend, Helen.

Ashleigh’s Reviews Burger King: As an American, I needed to try fast food. Admittedly, I’m not a huge Burger King fan, but I needed to understand England’s obsession with the second-rate chain. Despite the late hour of my arrival, I was surprised to find the establishment packed. I ordered a simple burger and fries with much hassle, due to the noise level, and a chocolate shake. Only through sampling these items would I be able to fully judge Burger King. The food took a while, but when it finally arrived, it tasted quite good. I did note a lack of grease, making the food feel at least slightly healthier than its American counterpart. Minus two stars because my chocolate shake never arrived. :( — Ashleigh Waggoner 161

When in Bath… Ashleigh Waggoner

All roads lead to Bath. Or that's how it felt Friday morning at six in the morning when we left for the tube station. Two tube rides, a train ride, a bus ride, a taxi ride, another bus ride, and one final train ride and it was true: all roads, or methods of transportation, would eventually get you from London to Bath (with pit stops in Salisbury, Amesbury, and at Stonehenge). When we (myself, Major, and Aubree) departed London, we left with nothing but a singular train ticket, our iron resolve, and a list of goals: Step 1) Make it to Stonehenge. Step 2) Get to Bath. Step 3) Make it back to London before Pizza Express closes. Suffice to say, we accomplished each of these goals, but I’m getting ahead of myself. This story is about Bath. Bath was unlike any city I’d ever been to. When we went soaring across the English countryside, I had little expectation for the near-coastal city. I was excited, yes, but already Oxford had captured my heart—or so I thought. Stepping off the train into the central station at the heart of Bath and hearing the baying calls of seagulls, it felt like coming home. Something inside my chest reoriented and I found myself staring into a vast, Bath shaped chasm that I had only a few hours to fill. So I set off with manic energy. We were nearing the end of our trip and I was determined to make the most of it while I could. In Bath, we self-toured through the winding, cobblestone streets. At every turn, there was a new alley lined with shopping centers, bookstores, and cafes. Ancient Abbeys, in their momentous architecture, 162

were bordered by the modern glass walls of tech stores. Bath was picturesque in its absurdity: castles nestled in the rolling green hills beyond the city proper, young students smoking in their school uniforms, seagulls diving for food, but no ocean in sight. Every piece of Bath seemed to fit exactly where it was needed. It did not justify its contradictions. It did not need to. Bath was Bath—contemporary and age-worn—and it would still be Bath when we left it. As expected, we found a historic bookstore to spend our money in and walked away with our pockets a little lighter, but hearts a little fuller. We settled into a coffee shop, Costa, and did a book exchange, each of us having bought books for the other two. At that moment, I was simply happy. There were no fears about leaving England, or even to leave behind the beautiful city we sat in. I had no doubts, no worries. I only

carried a joy that rooted itself into the bottom of my heart, unwavering. Miraculously, that joy prevailed through my next hardships. 1. I checked my bank account. 2. The “Hot Cross Buns Hot Chocolate” that I ordered was absolutely rancid. I spent a considerable amount of time in shock at the money I had burned through. (Really though, where did it all go?) And then I quit pretending that my hot chocolate was any good at all—it was deceivingly quite foul. There, in that city that seemed to hum with life both young and old, where years of history slumbered underfoot, I knew I had found something special and I was overjoyed to be with my friends, exploring the world and all the things that came with it: train rides, book exchanges, some seriously gnarly hot chocolate, and memories that last forever.

Culture Shocks Pt. 1 Anne Kim • At most pubs and restaurants, you get your own water. I didn’t know this and I remember requesting a glass of water from the waitress, only to get a strange stare. After I realized that I was supposed to get it myself from the bar, I apologized emphasizing that I was from America and in London for the first time. • WHERE. ARE. THE. TRASH. CANS. I had to cling to my coffee cups for HOURS. • There was a little cupboard on the wall in our hotel rooms that contained a kettle, tea, and coffee. TEA. AND. COFFEE. Why don’t we have that here!!! • I was so surprised to learn that the only way you could flick on the lights and use electricity was by putting your hotel key in a slot when you first walked in your room. This was such a genius concept and is perfect for conserving electricity. Another necessity in the US. • I was in awe every time I used the hairdryer in our hotel room. You pull open the right drawer on the desk, and there it is. ATTACHED to the drawer. 163

Family Memories: Phantom of the Opera. By: Sarah Lynne Jackson

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1985: The Lady.

2022: The Daughter.

In 1985, a young, beautiful lady visited London, England. The lady is just starting; at nineteen years old, her adult life has barely begun. She is young and naïve but strong and steady all the same. At ﬁrst, her arrival in London seems common, nothing new or exciting or even unique from any other person. But what makes her unique will come later. For now, she is just another member of the audience. Waiting for the performance of Phantom of the Opera to begin at the Her Majesty Theatre, just a few blocks from Piccadilly Circus. She watched as the chandelier came to life and swung out over the audience, and her heart skipped a beat when the organ played its haunting tune. She sipped her drink like all the other audience members, stared in awe at the lead actress as she sang, and clapped at the end of each act. At intermission she stood, stretched, and spoke with her friends about the mystery of the Phantom. As the last act unfolded, she learned how brutal and ugly humanity can be while still being so beautiful and awe-inspiring. As the performance ended, she rose with her friends and fellow audience members to give a standing ovation and left the theatre to walk the streets of London. The lady continued with her London adventure and her life. She inspired many, supported others, and became a mother, a wife, and a successful career woman. She treated others with respect and dignity, and she maintained high standards for herself and her life.

Thirty-seven years later, her middle daughter went to London with her university. Just like her mother, she explored and sought out new people and experiences. Just like her mother, she was young, new to the world, but strong and steady all the same. One night on her trip, the lady’s daughter bought tickets to see a show. This show was called The Phantom of the Opera performed at the Her Majesty Theatre just a few blocks from Piccadilly Circus. By fate or by accident, she watched as the same chandelier came to life and swung out over the audience, and her heart skipped a beat when the organ began to play its haunting tune. She sipped her drink like her mother, stared in awe at the lead actress as she sang, and clapped at the end of each act. As the last act unfolded, she and everyone else learned how brutal and ugly humanity can be while still being so beautiful and awe-inspiring. She watched how the selﬁshness, greed, desire for control, and shame a human can have can distort the things we love. But that doesn’t mean we are incapable of loving each other despite these things. When the performance ended, she rose with her friends and fellow audience members to give a standing ovation and left the theatre to walk the streets of London. The lady was my mother, Michelle. It was a happy accident that I saw the same show at the same theatre thirty-seven years after my mother did, but the memories I share with my friends and the new connection I have with my mother are no accident at all.

Shamrocks By: Brooke Ford

On the 13th of March, in the bathroom in the basement, past three doors and down three ﬂights of stairs from my upper level lunch table, in a pub down the street from the palace and near a large, grand pointy monument and a statue of a giant ice cream cone, I waited just inside the door and watched Kathy’s shamrock headband sway with the movement of her head as she swung up and down and side to sidegetting precariously close to both the bathroom stall and the bathroom mirror in the process as the bathroom itself was not very wide. The pub was not at all like the attractions resurrected around itmarble and pillars and gold details- here it was all wood and metal bar taps. But both out in the streets and in the pub, Irish people swarmed and sang in a joyous parade- the style of which I had only ever seen before on the news for sport-win celebrations in some bigger U.S. city that cared more about sports than mine did.

The parade spilled over into the bathroom too, so it was all wood and tile and Kathy’s huge Irish ﬂag which she ﬂapped like she was trying to get some air onto her under boobs. Maybe she was.I knew her name was Kathy, not because I knew her, but because the other four people in the bathroom were calling her name in celebration as she hit the higher

note of an Irish sounding song which played with twang through the bathroom speakers. All the others were equally adorned in Irish garb. They had flags, green scarves, and long necklaces with shamrocks (and shirts with shamrocks and tall hats with shamrocks) which all swayed with Kathy- one of them rhythmically coming into and out of view as the wearer was mostly tucked into an open stall to accommodate the group in the narrow room. There was something about them that was totally free. That something was probably alcohol, of which the smell was as bold as one of the singer’s green, smeared lipstick. But somehow, the drunkenness of the singers, radiating and echoing of the tiles, did not make me feel small- like I should try and shrink down or leave the area to make room for the drunkenness that I wasn’t a part of. But it wasn’t inviting either. It was like watching a memory- someone else's memory who wouldn't mind being beer drunk in the middle of the day in the bathroom in the basement of one of the biggest cities in the world- because it was warm and fun. It made me fall in love all over again with the idea of people out in the world who are so completely different from me. People who will sing and hold shoulders and shout their friends name in celebration. People who stumble into a line and try to stand up straight their very hardest when they realize they have been blocking the only open bathroom stalls and who offer you a shamrock on their way out.

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To Be An Oxford Student By: Audrey Lehmann

A few years ago, I met a cousin of mine for the first time when she traveled to St. Louis to stay with my grandparents for a week. Kat is three years older than me and attends Oxford University. Despite never having met before, it felt like we hit it off instantly. I was flattered by her appreciation for St. Louis and gooey butter cake, while she was tickled by our abundance of dogs and the violent water balloon fight that we included her in. But after that week, we lost contact. Other than the occasional DM about an Instagram story, we really were worlds apart. Our families had planned a reunion in France, but when COVID hit, all those plans were thrown out. Now, almost exactly two years later, I’d be coming to Europe after all. About a week before leaving for London, I messaged her saying that I’d be visiting Oxford and asked if she’d like to meet up. I was hesitant to reach out at all since we barely knew each other in the

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ﬁrst place, but she responded with an enthusiasm I hadn’t expected! I sent her my schedule and let her take control of the plans, trusting her judgment over my own.

When we ﬁnally came to Oxford, I eagerly waited outside Blackwell’s to meet her. She brought her friend Holly to give me a proper tour. We climbed to the top of St. Mary’s, toured Christ Church, and strolled around the lake. We wandered around student hot spots for lunch, tourist shops, and through their own colleges—Lincoln and Teddy. I was struck by the fact that students were living in these buildings. Outside their libraries were beautiful cemeteries, and yet they showed me around with a blase, casual attitude. It makes sense that you wouldn’t be in awe of the place you live, but I was surprised to hear that they were actually jealous of my experience. It seemed I’d fallen into the trap of equating London with England. Spending a week in London, apparently, was enviable. They also fervently wished to revisit the United States. Why, I could not tell you. It seems like even small-town Oxford has so much more to oﬀer, but they insisted that I only felt this way because I lived there. The feeling went both ways.

The conversation was delightful; I learned that my grandma, whom Kat had stayed with while in St. Louis, still texted her every week! I couldn’t imagine what she would have to talk to her about, but it was sweet to hear that she was staying in touch. I also learned about their school. They explained to me how they’d picked their pathways ages ago. The idea that I’d come into college undecided was odd for them. When I told them (perhaps with too much pride) that I was going to see Hamlet at the Globe, they responded that they’d done that in primary school! I was shocked to hear that their semesters consisted of seven-week terms interspersed with six-week breaks! I compared this miserably to my 16-week semester at KU, which I was only halfway through at the moment.

Though it was daunting to imagine living in such a historic town with such imposingly beautiful buildings, I fancied I would not think this way after spending some time here. I will not lie: I toyed with the thought of attending graduate school here…but then it was quickly shoved away again by a number of pushy realities. Though this was not the place for me to live, I decided to enjoy each and every part available. To be an Oxford student is a lovely thought, even if it isn’t for me.

Culture Shocks Pt. 2 Anne Kim • I don’t know if this one was just me, but EVERYTHING felt much more narrow in London … The streets, sidewalks, spaces inside buses, our hotel rooms, etc. literally anything you could think of!!! The only time I ever felt like I was in a large and spacious setting was when I visited a museum or exhibit of some sort. • Although it wasn’t peak spring weather when we visited, it was the onset of spring, so it was just starting to get warm … BUT WHY WAS EVERYONE DRESSED IN WINTER APPAREL FROM HEAD TO TOE. I’m not talking about your average “light” winter coat or jacket. The locals were wearing the thickest winter coat you could find, a scarf, a hat, etc. And the worst part- THEY WOULD KEEP ALL OF THEIR LAYERS ON INSIDE THE HOT AND STUFFY BUILDINGS. I don’t understand and still can’t comprehend it. • You don’t get your bill/check immediately when dining in as you do in America. I didn’t catch on until I felt like I was waiting for 30 minutes at every. single. restaurant. Make sure you lock eyes with your waiter/waitress and politely signal that you are ready to go! • Speaking of checks- I guess it isn’t normal to split checks in London??? Whenever my group and I would request to split our tabs, the server looked surprised because it is normal for one person to spot the entire group.

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The Cosmic Strathmore. Mady Edmonds

There are certain places where you just feel this indescribable attraction. No matter how hard you may try, you always end up in that one specific spot. Whether it’s because of imaginary lines on a map or the magnetic field beneath the earth, there’s no avoiding it. This is how I would describe the Grange Strathmore Hotel. Having stayed in this hotel before, I am no stranger to its uniqueness. The London home of the Queen Mother’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Strathmore, was converted to a posh Victorian hotel in the Royal Borough of Kensington. No room in this hotel is the same—you may get a spacious three-bed abode or a tight corner with just enough room to shimmy sideways in. Some may find this disenchanting, but I see it as a blessing. When in London, you never spend much time inside your bedroom, besides the occasional mid-day nap to

A glimpse into the lobby of the Grange Strathmore Hotel in Kensington.

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keep you going. If the room was too cozy, I might have considered never leaving. Instead, we all set up shop in the lobby’s lounge area, stocked with a full bar and an array of seating that allows for some of the most thoughtful conversations you could think of. It is here, in this lounge, that the real magic happens. There’s something about the room's allure that makes conversations stick for longer and pulls the meaning right out like baking soda to a splinter. When you’re sinking into one of the many couches the Strathmore has to oﬀer, it almost feels like it’s encapsulating you, coaxing your stories out into the open. Maybe it’s the Earl and Countess staring you down from above the bar, or perhaps it’s just the history and ambiance and simply knowing that many deep conversations had passed through that same lobby well before we even stepped foot into this world. Some of my favorite memories of our travels come from diﬀerent moments spent in the lobby after long days of exploring. One night, in particular, everyone happened to be returning to the lobby at the exact same time, and it seemed like we collectively decided to stay up to learn more about each other. That was one of my favorite moments of this trip, as I felt I was getting to know real people, not just classmates with whom I was sharing an experience. You never honestly know who you’ll meet in these situations and what conversations you’ll have. Sometimes, they’re over a mini cheesecake, other times over a chicken tikka masala takeout meal, and most times over nothing. Sometimes, you’re not talking at all but merely listening to others. I loved sitting and listening to the native Londoners talk about their day while cheering on the

Sarah Lynne, Cate, and I sightseeing in the rain.

English rugby team—it’s truly an experience that is hard to get at many other hotels. The one event that has convinced me that there is something more to the Strathmore was an absolute coincidence. One of my roommates from this past semester was studying abroad in Ireland and decided to come to London for a visit. After searching for a place to stay, she somehow ended up staying exactly one ﬂoor above me without having talked to each other. It wasn’t until we both were in the lobby at the exact same time that we realized the happy coincidence. We were able to catch up after being apart for so long, as well as travel together due to this chance interaction. The perfect cherry on top was deﬁnitely our assigned rooms for this trip. What were the odds of staying in the same hotel room as the last time I was in London for the London Review? Apparently, they were pretty high, and I was put back into the hotel room that I got to know oh so well back in March of 2020. This series of events further proves that there is a sort of cosmic energy about the hotel, which works on all of its inhabitants to bring us closer together as humans with complex connections that we don’t often get to explore.

Exploring Richmond with my roommate, Cate.

Madeline’s Mediterranean Ginny Hannahan Don’t sleep on Madeline’s Mediterranean. They’ve got locations all throughout London, and their bowls SLAP. They also have surprisingly good sweet potato chips. I hate to say it, but if this place ever makes it to Lawrence, The Mad Greek and that gas station by Dillon’s are in serious trouble...

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To light a candle is to cast a shadow”

Ursula K. Le Guin

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Epilogue. Naomi Madu

It wasn’t that long ago that the comfort of Kansas was replaced with the buzz of London. This exhilarating metropolis was the playground to almost two dozen students; each with a mission to explore, engage, and redefine everything they knew. Maybe some of them tagged along for the fun of it, but a mission is still a mission even if you realized it too late. They filled their days with all different kinds of activities and this collective experience brought the words of their class syllabus to life. All that is over now, of course. The perpetual cloudiness, the swoosh of the tube as it pulls into the station, all that has been replaced with the Kansas winds, smothered by this endearing college town’s spirit. It is now one month since London and adjusting to the patterns of behavior they not only embraced but also championed has been like struggling to get comfy on the couch. Or like a child growing out of their clothes. This car-centric society doesn’t fit anymore, there’s too much space on the street, on the sidewalk, and they can’t forget the taste of culture, opportunity, and an abundance of baked goods. There is more space in Kansas, and yet less room to breathe. More sun, and yet more gloom. In the weeks that have passed these students made their way listlessly into the lives they have built up over the years, shifting back into the form they always knew. This London-sized hole has to be filled somehow. Whether it's a return to books and independent bookstores or a shift in academic and professional planning, London has found its way to Kansas. It’s a coping mechanism for this cohort whose epic adventure slammed to a halt on a particularly temperate day, peppered with Covid tests. They blinked and they were at dinner, digging through one last three-course meal in a noisy pub. The night was filled with laughter and anticipation for the results of the KU game, and as they nursed their beers and ciders, their early-morning departure from the hotel felt further away. London was a welcome distraction from the realities they faced and the questions that loomed. Now, there is only Kansas. KU. Mid-terms. Graduation. Their futures are now just as close, if not closer than that fateful week in London. And the casual way they slipped back into their routines like line workers in a factory was a little disconcerting London almost felt unreal. In fact, the whole trip has begun to feel like that. Experiences and day trips have become words, which have grown repetitive when spoken and fictionalized when written. They have begun to ask themselves what was true and what was false about their trips. Pictures have become mementos from hazy dreamscapes and this great story they thought they had has shrunk into a marker on the timeline of their existence. Eventually, they realized that their trip to London was just that. An experience that will turn into a memory and, with time, burn away until the candle wick is no more.

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