I Volunteer As Tribute

“You’re totally right about Harry.” -some British kid I met

I dare say this was the best first-day-of-school I’ve ever had in my college career. Here’s the rundown.

9 am: Woke up to my usual alarm to get me pumped for the day. Mission accomplished.

10 am: There must be a God because I somehow managed to show up early for student enrollment. Only got yelled at by Harry a few times to be quiet.

12 pm: First class of the morning… Human Resource Management! Being a Marketing and Business major is pretty thrilling, what can I say. British courses, much like orientation, differ ever-so-slightly from American ones in the way that:

a) Professor kicks off class by stating that we can “call him anything, as long as it isn’t too insulting.”
b) Attending class is not mandatory. But hey, if you go that extra mile, good for you!
c) Feel free to take notes if that’s what you’re into. Turns out, most people aren’t a fan. I must have been the only one who even bothered to bring a notebook. Am I really the class nerd already?
d) We spent class analyzing a company. Naturally, said company was a local pub.

1-5 pm: My afternoon consisted of hanging out with friends, running errands, investigating whether there’s a restaurant in East London that isn’t Thai or Indian (spoiler alert: there is not), and most importantly, scheming for my first Monday night in the land of butterfaces. Mom and Dad, if you’re wondering, I spent the evening attending my Employment Relations class and further educating myself on the wonders of international business. To everyone else: this is false.

Honestly, I was conflicted to realize that my second class was scheduled exactly when the drunken ferry boat expedition aka “river tour” was. But then 5 minutes later it dawned on me that I’m here to study abroad… meaning not study at all. I mentioned the problem to some of my British classmates and they were confused why I was even worried about attending class in the first place. Yes, apparently even the first day of school makes absolutely no difference here.

6 pm: And so it began. I wasn’t sure what exactly the dress code for this shindig was, but anyone who knows me is well aware that I always make a point of being ridiculously overdressed. As far as I was concerned, this was a party for the 1% and wearing a shirt with enough sparkles to blind onlookers was absolutely necessary. And like any other girl in my situation, I came equipped with a satchel containing all of the essentials: iPhone, lipgloss, and a 50-year-old war flask passed down my family for generations (not a joke). Tonight was basically my version of the alcoholic Hunger Games.

7-11 pm: A lot happened over the course of those four hours, but only a few events deserve mentioning. It was a pretty standard night in the sense that a) I had requested every Kanye West and Jay-Z song ever created to the DJ. Multiple times. b) I insisted every person in the vicinity dance to these songs… because why sit when you can dance? And c) the kitchen staff hated me and my friends with a fiery passion. Apparently throwing food at each other is frowned upon. The already interesting night became even more interesting when it came to my attention that my arch-nemesis, Harry, was on board. Now, I wish I could share with you the exact play-by-play of how this heated encounter went down. But unfortunately, it’s all a little fuzzy because, now as I write this, the boat ride was over a week ago. Tequila may have also played a factor. What I can tell you is this: I’m 80% positive that when I approached him I was speaking in a British accent. Please keep in mind that as much as I’m convinced I’m amazing at impressions and total SNL material… saying I’m good would probably be a stretch. Also keep in mind that the bulk of my inspiration for mimicking British accents came from watching Austin Powers movies in middle school.

But back to Dr. Evil himself. Like I said, I have no recollection of what I actually told Harry but I’m going to take a wild guess and presume a) it was jam-packed with insults and b) I made various Harry Potter references, regardless of whether they actually made sense or not. Probably something along the lines of: “Hey Voldemort, what’s with all of the sassy emails, huh? Keep it up and I’ll write a new blog dedicated entirely to calling out your atrocious fashion sense. Now if you excuse me, I’m going to go disapparate to the bar. There’s a bottle of scotch over there calling my name.”

As absurd as it sounds, there are a few constants in my life and they include: hating every color besides black, burning calories watching Homeland, and having no filter whatsoever. Either way, chances are Harry wasn’t too traumatized by my remarks… because what I do remember is my friend stumbling over to me and Harry 30 seconds later, exclaiming: “NICE FUCKING JACKET, HARRY. IS THAT FUR YOU’RE WEARING?” Then he walked off.

The only other thing that happened was my friends and I came up with nicknames for every study abroad student and they all agreed I’m “Princess.” I’m still offended, for the record.