This weekend commences OPERATION THE L WORD. And by L Word, I do not mean some reference to a lesbian soap opera on HBO. Instead, I am referring to my whirlwind tour of cities that begin with the letter “L.” (Aren’t I creative with titles?) Yes, over the next three weeks, I will be making my way through Liverpool, Lisbon, and one final hoorah in London. Shockingly, the following weekend will mark my return to New York. Insert: jaw-dropping expression here.
Aside from the fact that I am in complete denial of the reality that come July I will not be able to take weekend holidays in Paris and gorge on hip-altering macaroons, I am pretty much in my happy place. My Philosophy of Law tutor remarked this morning, “Yaffa, this was an excellent essay. You write wonderfully, with such depth, and in less than a month your comprehension of deep philosophical concepts has grown tremendously.” Of course, she followed that compliment with the assignment of Joseph Raz, possibly the most convoluted modern legal positivist ever. All I could think is, “Why do you build me up buttercup… just to let me down and mess me around?” Yes, in moments of utter confusion, I take solace in Motown. Now you can too:
But mind-numbing juridical thought aside, this weekend I embark on a new mission– playing the girlfriend of a gay boy in the presence of his father, the vicar of a fairly large parish in Liverpool. With my “wealth” of relationship experience, I am sure I will do an excellent job of balancing laughter at my significant other’s jokes, while remaining calm, cool, and collected during the parental interrogation.
The unfortunate– and slightly tempestuous– part of the situation is that said boy who prefers boy, but is pretending to prefer breasts, is bringing his three housemates along for the three hour ride. And apparently his housemates are both beautiful and wealthy. I must resist the urge to indulge my inner estrogen, and play the role of a docile little American girlfriend. Otherwise, I will have another Parisian-host-mother-who-thinks-I-am-a-whore-because-I-show-my-damn-sexy-ankles situation. Only, in this case, it will be a vicar, which means I will likely face the wrath of a fire and brimstone sermon.
In preparation for this journey, I asked my SO what to purchase his parents. His response: “Nothing exotic.” When I referenced Belgian chocolate from the Oxford Covered Market, he remarked, “They are very British. They like British things.” Without a second stereotypical thought, I mentioned tea from an adorable shop in town. Again, he said, “Um, nothing too exotic. They won’t drink it.” Therefore, today, Adria accompanied me to purchase Earl Grey and English Breakfast from said tea shop– instead of Darjeeling or anything else reminiscent of Indian or Chinese splendor. To cite my 11th Grade history teacher, “Keep it simple, stupid.” And for the first time since I was 16, I listened.
1. YEAH FOUNDATIONS
2. This entire entry sounds like an episode of Will & Grace
3. YEEEEEEEEAH FOUNDATIONS
Great writing.