Day 3

I fell asleep to the lullaby of laughter, clinking glasses, and indistinct voices – fringed in that British accent that still feels so new to me.

I escaped the birthday party occurring below in order to read a novel in a night – the Buddha of Suburbia, which I had walked 50 minutes to purchase at John Sandoe that same day.

Yes, I am a bit breathless. My timetable is filled with so much yawning space I found myself yawning (sleeping in, taking long walks) before snapping into the realization that I had a heap of reading to do.

Luckily, I had a more structured day today composed of two seminars and a peeking purview of the King's gym.

The people at King's are weird. Blue hair and no bras weird. The girl next to me in my seminar looked a bit stoned; as if her mind "had turned to glass" (as occurred to the mother in "Buddha.)

But the stuff that issues from their mouth – that is golden. Gems of analysis - thoughts that unfurl richly and luxuriantly the more they talk. These people are smart.

Dipping into my knowledge of dialect, I would call the Comparative Literature Students "grungy" and the English Literature Students a little more refined; less black eyeliner and stiletto nails.

I went for a tea with a Parisian girl who laughed when I attempted to pronounce "pain au Chocolat." She also speaks Spanish and Russian.

I also liked a girl from India who nodded vigorously when I brought up Virginia Woolf in our seminar – though later apologized for doing so.

The acquaintance I am most eager to form, however, is with London.

Hanif Kureshi, author of the "Buddha of Suburbia," describes the city to exist in imagination. He frequently refers to London as "his playground."

All my life, I have colored in my conception of London with novels and quaint histories. The city of Virginia Woolf. Of Charles Dickens and Elizabeth Barret Browning. Of crooked streets and colourful facades.

The reality adheres to this dream, though, slowly, I have unearthed a few extensions onto London's personality – characteristics that I hadn't included in my shining image. Oxford Street. Homelessness. 9 pound pots of tea. Not one – but infinite english accents.

I am collecting all these intimacies of the city. The hidden moles and secret tattoos – an old piano I saw leaning up against the wall as I walked to class, the sound of my spoon scraping into a delicious, but expensive, bowl of porridge.

These findings however, only enrich my understanding of London. A city that cannot adhere to one image. That is in constant flux.

As Virginia Woolf wrote, "all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be are full of trees and changing leaves."