Disappointment, Euphoria and other Strong Emotions

Let the misadventures begin!!!

...

So, on Monday, I arrived in London, moved in, got settled, and everything seemed to be going well.  My internet worked, but not my phone, as I needed an international SIM card.  Then, on Wednesday I woke up to find that the internet would not connect, which meant that I had no way to contact the outside world, i.e. my parents, whom I knew from past experience would take this badly (cue the ominous, foreshadowing background score).

 So, I went to the reception desk here at the apartments to see about solving my internet problem, and was told to either email the network coordinators or call ISS services.  Obviously, I couldn't do either one, so I tried my apartment's computer room, filled with tons of unused computers which also wouldn't allow me to log on, and no one could help me with this either.  Then I remembered (wisely, I thought) that I had an iPhone and that, if I signed up for new service I would have both internet and phone service and (voila!) my problems would be solved.   I could use Facebook and Skype to talk to everyone back home without using long-distance minutes.  Oh silly, ignorant me!

I took the Tube downtown and found a Vodaphone store, where a representative told me, "Sure! We can get you set up with a new account on an existing phone as long as you have a British bank account or a letter of acceptance form your university."  Having neither on hand, and because it was getting late, I decided to go home for the day and conquer the problem the next day.  Meanwhile, my parents had gone an entire day (oh, the horror!) with no word from me.

On Thursday, knowing that I needed a British bank account anyway, I found myself sitting in a USBC, waiting for about an hour and a half to see a harried and exhausted-looking banker.  They had had a bit of drama that morning.  A woman had come in while I was waiting, extremely drunk and incoherent at 10:30am, babbling about a stolen ATM card, whereupon she collapsed in a heap on the carpet in the lobby, and could not be moved because every time she was helped into a sitting position, she threw up.  The sight of all those suited, uber-polite, and proper London bankers stepping over the sprawled limbs and vomit puddles of the poor drunk lady was an unexpected twist to my morning errand, to say the least.  Finally (the ambulance having come and rescued the maiden-in-distress), I was ushered into the banker's receptacle and discovered that I would (of course) need internet access in order to transfer money from my American account to my new British account.  Right... Oh, and also, my acceptance letter from King's College was apparently out of date and I would have to supply them with a new one sometime in the next four weeks or my account would be closed.

So, shiny new bank account in tow, I went back to Vodaphone to open a pay-as-you-go account with a new British SIM card, and found out that my iPhone is locked for international service and that there is no unlocking code for the iPhone 4 yet.  So now I have a very expensive glorified iPod.  Some of the apps still work, though.   Tired of the run-around for awhile, I decided to go home, rethink the problem, rest awhile (so I thought) and come back later.  Two full days had now passed since I had last Skyped my parents and they had proceeded to lose their ever-loving minds.

Back at the apartments, I was stopped by a lady in reception who asked me if I happened to be Melinda Helms.  When I replied, startled, that I was, she informed me that my parents had contacted the apartments several times that day, my room had been searched, my roommates interrogated for my last known whereabouts, and random female students had been checked for my identity at the door.  Feeling very much like a criminal and having had entirely too much frustration for one day, I promptly lost my shit.

I hate, ABHOR, crying in public, but the embarrassment of my apparent man-hunt combined with all of the other stresses of the week (or month, really) led to my breaking suddenly and simultaneously into laughter and tears, whereupon the receptionist, taking compassion (I'm sure) for the emotionally unstable half-wit in front of her, mothered me into her office and dialed my father's cell phone number.

In the ensuing commotion and all of my profuse apologies, I left my purse beside her desk and, rushing back 15 minutes later when I discovered it was missing, found that the office was closed for the day.  At this point, I decided that nothing good could possibly come of the day and returned to my room to bury my woes under a heap of duvet and self-pity myself into oblivion.

Thankfully, my roommates rescued me and, instead, I spent the rest of the night in a bar...on a boat...on the Thames.  That's right.  Read it again.  It sounds even better the second time.  To get there we took the Thames pathway past the London Eye (huge Ferris wheel), all lit up with twinkling blue lights and with the Parliament building and Big Ben glowing from the opposite bank.   It was a perfectly fantastic night.  How's that for a turn-around!