The 2nd to Last Blog

I know what you're thinking: 2nd to last blog? Come on Andy, you're back in the states. Just finish it up already! Plus, I've been following this for 5 MONTHS! SERIOUSLY, 2 MORE?

In response: my apologies. But in truth, I never forced you to read my blog. Unless this is my grandma, in which case I did. Actually, upon seeing my grandma when I got back to the states, she informed me that she had been following the wrong blog! Apparently she was reading some nut (who also had the ingenious idea to call his blog "Andy Abroad) who referred to himself as "the wasp." Goodness knows how long it was until she figured out that it wasn't me. And when she did find my blog, it was "too long to actually read."

Looking forward: For my final blog, I would like to do something impossibly cheesy and heart-warming. Therefore be warned; if you search for warmth of heart, read no further and just wait for the final one. If you seek sarcasm and illusive references, read on.

When I left you it was December 1st, location, London. Life was beginning to wrap itself up. I went to a couple of plays, including a punk-gothic rendition of the world's greatest love story. Juliet was brilliant, Romeo was chunky, and there was the most unfortunate appearance of a countertenor who should not have been a countertenor. I also went to some concerts, and realized I've become an orchestra snob. I feel slightly more qualified for such a pretentious title as I did spend a semester working for an orchestra. Even if you were a great Russian cellist back in your day, you have no right to destroy the most overplayed movement of the Carnival of Animals, and then have the audacity to smile with pride. My Irish and Greek company abandoned me at the interval, and I was left with an Italian who demanded wine if we were to stay for the 2nd half. (Justifiably so...the swan lay murdered, the killer holding his blood drenched roses with brazen confidence. And those roses did not remove themselves for the second half; their guilt and sin glared from the conductors podium where they had been uncouthly placed.) Awkwardness presented itself in the form of the British national anthem, which left me confused to my proper response, though the Italian insisted we remain seated. I think we made the wrong choice. But, as Madonna tells us through the medium of James Bond, I guess I'll die another day.

Finals came, and finals went, and still I could not raise any academic enthusiasm. Fortunately these are all pass/fail, so those miserable Bs will not leave their ugly mark on those precious numbers which have been reduced to the dreaded acronym of GPA. Then a wave of goodbye parties, mostly bittersweet (and thankfully without too much bitter, at least on my end.) The goodbyes came in many forms, respectively and incomplete: a swanky Indian meal in a private wine cellar, a thrown-together Sherry party with a champagne thank-you, shouted embraces in a crowded club, a lovely traditional game stew and quick awkward tube hug--which I still believe to be divine intervention from the Eel pies, a feverish morning mumble on the streets of Edinburgh, a hurried and fairly impersonal ushering from the door and car, and a brief unsaid heart pulse from Heathrow for a city that my infatuation had grown into love.

Yes, I went to Scotland for a night, fatedly-marred by fever. Yet the haze and the heat could not remove the medieval and Potterish beauty. Trains brought me Glasgow accents and eventually London. 5 months is a long time to be gone, and my excitement prevented even my sickly tiredness from coaxing me to sleep the night before. Before I knew it, I had devoured 4 movies, brain-numbingly transported to my skull from the back of a Delta seat, each collectively more stupid than the previous. I started with Salt, and with it's gun-wielding, plot-lacking, action-packed, trashy-spy-movie goodness, it was the most intelligent. Before I knew it, I was in Middle America, making an unanswered phone-call announcing my arrival, and then taking a girl to coffee who I had happily argued about the phone with. The girl went on to tell me her current relationship problems, which I would retell, but it took 3 hours for her to tell me, and frankly, it's not very interesting. But it was nice to have company and eat a hamburger, a meat I had not tasted for 5 months. By midnight I was in Seattle, delirious and in the arms of 3 wonderful friends. Stories were exchanged, my reverse-culture shock manifested itself most powerfully, and within 14 hours I was in Medford.

And that's my life. Andy is no longer abroad. Instead, I have been filling out last-minute internship homework, changing my graduation date (May now...always the masochist) and physically attaching myself to the piano as a recital is quickly approaching. Have I changed, you ask? Sure. I'm not the same as I left. But I think I'm more Andy than I have ever been.

Repent, for the End is Near

Return.

A strange act which I will commit (Lord willing) in only 12 days. It looms with me everywhere now, whether I try to put it out of my mind or not. At classes there is a general fever of excitment, and it is a common topic of discussion. I can't go a whole day at work without it's mention. I'm going back.

It's time to go back.
It's time to see my family and my old friends.
It's time to reconnect and recreate an old and new life.
It's time to take the next step.

Oh dear, I seem to have gotten too serious. And we all know I don't write serious blogs.


MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!

Thanksgiving was thoroughly un-British, which was something to be thankful for. Some good choices were made, some not as good choices were made, but it was a lot of fun with friends here. My friends from work also threw a Thanksgiving party, which was marvelous.

I went to a play, called Warhorse, and I saw something beautiful. Now I am trying to discover how to create something beautiful.