"Do you realize that you have the most beautiful [type] face?"

It’s funny how the mind can play tricks on you. What’s stranger perhaps is how dependant we are on our minds to create a logical, structured understanding of our surroundings in order to become oriented. If we can change how we process information, or if we actively choose to acknowledge or apply a different meaning to something other than its common, accepted definition, given enough time we can literally redefine our surroundings. It makes one (who watches BSG) think of the Cylon’s ability to project—to literally create a different perception of their location to wherever they choose to be. It implies a certain amount of psychological escapism, I suppose, to try and change your surroundings by imagining you are somewhere else. But what if you’re not doing it on purpose?

Lately, I keep thinking I’m in New York. Not to any extreme—I don’t wake up thinking I live in Brooklyn around Park Slope (it would explain all the trees I live near), plan to hop on the subway to get to the island and wander around downtown somewhere, looking to satiate a hankering for a hot dog (“Mmmmm…hot dog…”). But there are moments I’ll be walking down a certain street in the center of London, and it will remind me of New York so much that for a moment or a little bit more I will forget that I’m on this side of the proverbial pond. It happened the other day on Dean Street—I was hunting around for the Soho Theatre to catch a play with my friends Lisa and Ronan, and I suddenly felt like I was somewhere around the Lower West Side. It confused me for a second or two, and though I shook it off rather quickly, something still lingered.

I’ve been missing New York in the strangest ways recently. London doesn’t seem to move quite fast enough, and maneuvering the sidewalks is a joke—it’s like people don’t know how to walk here. I still haven’t found a good bagel. I’d like to go out for a drink with someone at 10PM, and not worry about there being no room in the bar, or the fact that it’s going to close in half-an-hour. I miss travel after midnight that doesn’t involve buses. I dislike reading the New Yorker online, but can’t afford to buy imported copies of it, thus negating the joy I get out of the process of reading the magazine—carrying it around in your bag all week, folding it in half so you can read it column by column, getting residual ink on your hands, tearing out cartoons and poems and saving them for journals or bulletin boards or refrigerator doors. In the same vein, I bought the International Herald Tribune the other day because I missed the New York Times’s typeface. Yes: the typeface.

These things seem small, I know, but they are those parts of your everyday experience, the items and actions that beget living habits, that make you feel at home. I am, after ten months, still looking for New York in London. It must be said, the two cities are more similar than they are dissimilar. Both are extremely “international,” have tons of cultural offerings, etc. But still, there is something completely different in the air in London (::insert joke about Thames fumes here::), and I think it has something to do with the layout of the city. New York is a city built on top of itself, with buildings so tall and dense that at some locations you can’t see the next block over from the ground. Sometimes you’ll go for hours and not see the sun. Aside from the financial district, this sort of layout of structures seems far less frequent in London, and the city therefore, aided by its watery bisection, feels more open and spread out. New York towers over you and creates secrets as it looms; London is public and open and available. You can easily feel anonymous in any large city, but in New York you can almost feel anonymous even to yourself. While that can be lonely, there’s also something safe in that, a specific kind of detachment that I had come to know during my sojourn there, and one I cannot seem to replicate here. I don’t know quite why I seek to find this security of solitude, especially as one who is so often lonely, but I do, and London doesn’t cut it the same way.

Now, it must be said: I am far more anonymous in London than I am in New York, if we’re just going on the basis of the number of people I’m acquainted with out of the total population of either city. But London, with its open air and visible sunlight (when there is sunlight), seems to receive me more as a friend than New York did. You can’t lose yourself in the architecture here, perhaps because so much of it is largely historic. Maybe the only way to lose yourself in this city is not to the corners of the unknown, but instead, to the past. To really grasp London, you have to let yourself be transported, daily, back generations or decades, and being young myself (and young to this city), I still perhaps don’t have the experience enough to fully comprehend that.

The musings about these cities and what each has to offer is a topic not new to me or to the returning readers of this blog. It again surfaces as I begin my last couple months of my dissertation work, and my fellow immigrants are discussing their futures. Some seem set on eventually returning to their country of origin, but many of us are looking to be here long term. I’ve started talking to some other American ex-pats, and the UK visa process keeps coming up in discussion. Most of us are confused by what we have to do, or are daunted by it, or frustrated already. Others look at it like a crap shoot—we’ll try for it and figure the odds as best we can, but in the end know that we have less control over the dice than we’d like and we’ll just have to see what we end up with. To call back to BSG again: “Sometimes you have to roll the hard six.” But even if my visa does come through, the question that really lies at the heart of this is: what would I have to discover about London to really make it feel like a home? Or on the other hand, what would I have to be prepared to perceive about London to have it show me these things?

I had a strange run in with a man the other week, who drunkenly engaged me in very pleasant (albeit repetitive) conversation when I was running late to see Lament for Medea at the Arcola. We had ended up on a bus together, and he reminded me (over and over) that if I loved London, it would love me right back. When I went to get off the bus, he gave me a twenty pound note to take a cab to the theatre so I wouldn’t have to wait for the Overground. He kissed my hand as he did it. If that’s London loving me, London is kind of creepy. But at least he’s looking out and taking care of me on some level. On a kind of weird, creepy level, but yeah.*

Now if he could just serve me up a good bagel, I’d move right in.

*(For the record the guy was actually really nice and not at all inappropriate as we spoke, and I do believe the gesture came from a genuine place. He said someone had helped him when he was younger and that someday I’d do the same thing for someone else. Dear God, I hated Pay it Forward, but now it looks like I’ve made a bargain I’ll have to fulfill someday. That’s alright—but I’ll try to be sober when I do it.)

Recall

Returning to New York is back on the table as a seriously viable option. I may be ice fishing come winter 2010, but NYC is definitely back in the running as a choice of home post-third term in the UK.

A greater update on all of my activities soon.

Okay, but seriously now: To Stay, or To Go?

Okay, let us speak plainly. I've come to a crossroads, and I'm not sure what road to take.

In one direction: Democracy, friends, Central Park, 24-hr. mass transit, Comedy Central programing on a timely basis, and *REAL* bagels. Also in this direction are the personal demons, the baggage, the shitty winters, and fucking hipsters (FUCK. YOU. HIPSTERS.<--My hatred has only grown since my time away.). Not to mention the fare hikes that will cost the monthly Metrocard user $103 every thirty days to re-up. It makes you wish there really were MTA Service Specialists. My friend Jenna said it best, I think: "But seriously, for $103 a month I want someone to give me pretzels."

Now, in the other direction lies buildings low enough to see stars at night, culturecultureculture, easy access to Europe, fried fish (I am a sucker for fried food), the best coffee I've ever had (Jason: I love you), and a government that funds its art scene. But this direction has its downfalls, too: A subway system that closes down at midnight, sidewalks that are too narrow with ne'er a trash bin to be found, KFCs that don't have mashed potatoes or biscuits, OR extra-crispy chicken (What is the *point* then?), and fewer friends--still lovely, but small in numbers.

And then there's the whole visa thing.

As I've noted before, I can't work in this country as an actress under my student visa.

Wait. Back up. Let's re-phrase that:

I can't work for MONEY in this country as an actress under my student visa. I know what you'll say:

YOU:
Well, then get another visa!

To which I will respond:

ME:
It's not that easy.

You see, to claim another visa as a "post-study worker," I would need a total of 75 points on my application to be eligible for consideration, not to mention that teensy processing fee of 800GBP. Oh but yes. If you consider that sum at the highest and lowest I've seen the exchange rate since starting out on this little venture, that's anywhere between $1,680 and $1,096 (currently, it would come to $1,146.11). Here's what the UK Border Agency has to say about eligibility:

To apply under our points-based system and be accepted into the post-study worker category, you must pass a points-based assessment.

You must score:

• 75 points for your attributes, which are a United Kingdom qualification, study at a United Kingdom institution, your immigration status during United Kingdom study and/or research, and the date of award of the qualification; and
• 10 points for English language; and
• 10 points for available maintenance (funds)

The whole thing is daunting, and reeks of impossibility. But more than that: it smells like adulthood. What? Actually working for something over long term suffering and sacrifice? Seriously? Don't you know I'm an only child? I'm not into that.

But aside this being a hard process, and therefore unappealing, even after spending the money, getting a job that will help me gather the funds to prove that I can support myself to the border officials, there is still a chance that I will be rejected. And it looks like I can't actually apply until I have my MA documentation--which will not exist until December. So post Germany, I'll have at least four months of doing other things besides trying to pursue acting as my sole career, and if anything does come up I won't be able to take it if there's pay involved, because legally I can't receive any. And quite frankly, I've already done this.

The big reason to get the MA--the HUGE one--was to feel like a legitimate actor. Much of this has to do with what I always saw being the difference between myself and the actors I caught in major regional theatre productions: they had MAs or MFAs, and I did not. I once asked a former colleague of mine to see if she could get me an audition for such a gig, and she told me flat out that I had no chance of getting seen because they were only going to call in people with masters degrees. So from the time I was young (about the 11th grade), I always knew that getting an MA or an MFA was a must, because those were the kind of houses I wanted to play in, and that was the kind of money I wanted to make. Let us forget for a moment that much more of a theatre practitioner's life, particularly an actor's, is left to chance, more so than most any other occupation. So let us not waste time debating the finer points of this argument by citing (as we all can) our *one* friend who made it big on nothing more than a BA or a couple classes at the Neighborhood Playhouse. Let us simply acknowledge this as an established convention of casting, and move on. So you see, to me a huge part of what I wanted for my career involved working in specific houses across the country, with specific reputations. And these places also meant a specific perk: a paycheck.

Now, don't get me wrong: unpaid acting is still acting if you're putting the work in. I've done a lot of it, seen a lot of unpaid performances, and have a lot of friends who do it, and I know this to be true. But it's not what I want, not for my career, and not for my life, and gaining an MA was a step to leaving that part of the industry, only to return when between paying gigs or to fulfill an artistic desire. The wisest man I ever knew once told me:

THE WISEST MAN EVER:

Lea, don't be a drama slut, be a drama whore. Whores get paid.

Basically his advice was, if it pays nothing but it gives you something for your soul, than it's worth it; if it pays you a lot, and gives you nothing for your soul, except a chance to fulfil it at another time because you'll be able to support yourself for a little while, then it's worth it. But if you're not getting either of these two compensations, turn around and Run in the other direction.

I've been through the ringer. I've done a lot of theatre that gave me nothing in return except a few embittered jokes and another credit on my resume. I've had my soul ripped out and built up again and again. I won't dwell on this too long, because every actor has known pain, and everyone who has had to sit and listen to them ramble on about their pain is almost instantly bored. But I got into a rut in New York that I couldn't shake, and a large reason for the change in scenery was to get out of it--and also to try to take steps to live a little more like a whore, in the monetary sense.

So here I am, sitting next to big change, on the brink of something I have no understanding of, and because of legal reasons I'm at the exact same place I was in New York. Now, there are a couple budding artistic relationships that might be good to see through here--partly because of the work that could be generated within those relationships, and partly because of my sheer enjoyment of working with those people. And so the soul has the potential to be paid. But sitting around, generating work that would possibly have to transfer to New York to ever see the light of day with me making any bank on it--it just doesn't quite work for me. Maybe I'm too impatient. But at twenty-four and a half, I already feel too old to pussy-foot about. I'll be the first to identify that statement as concerning myself and not anybody else. But as it is my life, and as it is how I feel about it, I can't shake the feeling that that many months without having some prospect of paid work, not even an opportunity, is exactly what I don't want. And I don't think pushing a piece of chalk around the drawing board of new work is going to cut it for me.

This sudden state of crisis that I've come to with all of this was brought on by Spotlight. Months in advance of publication, Spotlight gathers its clients information, headshots, and money, in order to print a large book listing all the registered actors in the UK. And there are a lot of us. I received a notice in the mail the other day informing me that to make it into the Actresses book that would be published in October, I would have to confirm by the last week in April. The books last for a year. If I spent the money--to me it's an investment--then that is like saying I am going to try to get a new visa and stay here through October 2010, the cost and potential agony be damned! But the unknown is frightening, and not *completely* appealing, I might add. And in truth: I don't know if I want to stay.

London is fine. It's great. But I miss my friends, I miss the grid system, and I miss REAL pizza (and again, *bagels*). Maybe it's just homesickness, but this not knowing when I'll return makes it hard to decide if I should stay, too. Though in truth--New York is just as much an unknown as London is in some ways. I have nothing to go back to: not a serious job prospect, not an apartment, not even a boyfriend or some kind of distant lover I could finally culminate things with and settle down with accordingly. I don't have those things here, either, but at least in America there's already a chance I could get paid acting work, and my accent wouldn't be working against me: one of the other Americans at the ADR work I booked the other day told me that many American actors were over here hiding their accents because they wouldn't be seen for British roles if the director knew they were American. That is a stressful prospect. But it's not worth stressing about, if you can't even get an audition because of your "alien" status.

I have a bet running with a certain someone regarding the date of my return, and if I headed back before March 2010, I'd lose it. The consequences aren't entirely unpleasant, but I'm not looking forward to what awaits me if I fail. Also: I hate losing. HATE IT. But to stay in a place simply out of stubbornness over a bet seems ridiculous, and further highlights the most important part of this decision: that whatever I end up choosing, must be my choice, and not something I submitted to or felt I should do, or whatever. And once I've made that choice, I have to commit to getting it done. If it means trying to stay here, then that's what I do: I work to stay here. If it means going back to the states, then it is with the understanding that I am going to make some large changes in my life, and that I will not return to the way I was running shop before (which was fine and all, but not nearly pro-active enough).

Either direction is hard to walk in. Now it's just a matter of knowing where to aim the first step.

"...I ain't lost, just wandering."

Okay, so break has officially started, and I've decided to fall back into step as a tourist in the fine city of London. Much like the last few months I spent in New York, I'm going to try to embark on "London events." It will help pass break by more quickly and enjoyably, and will also distract from the working out I plan to do (yeep). Again, I'm open for any recommendations from people, and will report my own findings upon discovery.

St. Patrick's Day in the UK

Ah, the luck of the Irish.

St. Patrick's was pretty uneventful, but spent amongst friends and over alcohol, and therefore just right. (Above: Maria and Ronan start the festivities after a beat experiment. Maria had Ronan use his accent to get that hat. Oh, the exploitation of the Irish continues...)

When done with school for the day, I headed over with Caitlin to Filthy MacNasty's, a Scottish bar, where you could get a Guinness and a bowl of Irish stew for 5GBP, and be serenaded by a Pete Doherty look-alike, even if you didn't order that. (Sorry: Pete-R Doherty, now. Apparently the "r" is essential.) We joined Max and Heidi, who had gotten there about an hour before us, and were later joined by Ronan, who was possibly the only actual Irishman in the place (and subsequently got all his Guinnesses served to him in actual glass glasses--the rest of us had to settle for plastic knock-offs). I grabbed a cab and headed home early, and my driver only charged me for half the fare after we had a lovely chat about drama schools--he'll be auditioning for one in a couple months. I didn't see quite the widespread drunkenness that you can usually catch in NYC, but considering the Peter Doherty look-alike had been in the pub since 10AM, I'd say the spirit of the day was most definitely still maintained.

No Guinness-staches here!

Blow, blow, thou winter wind...

So I got up this morning to snow. A lot of snow. It had started late last night and had still been going in the early AM when I finally got to bed. When I got up, it was still going. I have been telling people repeatedly in New York that London doesn't get snow the way we do back in the states, and that's mostly true most of the time. But today I trekked out in ankle-deep white to catch the tube to school early, only to be greeted by a series of hurdles that should have been indicators to turn around and snuggle back into bed.

First, there was breakfast. In the cafe in my halls, breakfast is served from 7:45-9AM Monday through Friday. But it was dark and vacated when I got down there at a quarter to eight. Other students stood around with me, until I finally left because I didn't want to be late getting out the door. I got outside, and despite the hour, the roads and sidewalks were covered with snow. I got to the tube station and needed to top up (refill) my Oyster (Metro) Card, and there was no one in the booths to do so, just a sign with the hours of operation for the booth, showing me that whoever was meant to be working was half an hour late. I couldn't figure out the automatic machine for ticketing and ended up spending £4 to get a single fair to school, which is ridiculous since the student weekly unlimited, what I had been planning to buy, is £18. When I got to the first station I change at, I wandered over to my transfer to find the entire platform blocked off. I went to another platform to get onto a different train line that wasn't suspended. When I got off that train they had closed up the station I arrived at: a mob of people stood out front the entrance behind the accordion gates, while a TFL employee spoke into a megaphone to give updates on the various lines. It was like wartime! I got to Central and found out my appointment was cancelled, as was my first class session for the day, and that the school itself would probably close sooner rather than later. So I went to the library and got some scanning done for The Space's blog, and have been holed up here ever since (at time of publication, about two hours).

It seems ridiculous that a major metropolis should have so many problems over a little snow. It may be steady, it may be sticky, but it's not all that heavy and it is most certainly not a blizzard--I've lived through several, including one in which my parents and I had to sleep in our living room as our heater was out, with only our fire place for warmth, drinking water my mother had pumped herself into buckets from a well that fed our neighbor's horse trough. Oh yes, I know a blizzard, and this is nowhere near that. All in all, I was struck with the rather pathetic nature of this city to deal with this kind of weather, and mostly I'm confused. Snow isn't totally foreign to these people, so seriously, what's the deal? Still, after thinking about it a bit, London and it's relationship to snow is similar to that of New York and it's relationship with rain. As soon as it starts, suddenly everything stops. Subways are delayed, no one wants to go anywhere, every one's twenty minutes late or they reschedule for next week. It's ridiculous. Where is the gumption, people? It's just a little precipitation.

I am also effectively stranded here, not knowing how to walk home from this area, and also not having any trains to take. And also, apparently the buses are severely delayed, not that I'd know what to take anyway. And now I'm groaning like everybody else I've been complaining about. Screw this: I'm off to find a cappuccino and maybe see a movie, if I can find anywhere with any employees to provide me with such things. My sleeping bag coat is kind of like a bed. Or maybe I'll stay in the library till they close, watching old productions of Shakespeare. There must be some thing to do, even with an entire city shut down. I'm off to hunt it out.