So with only a week left in London, I cry. Fairly certain that if I didn't have to do this whole senior year spiel, I would stay here forever. Perhaps just pitch a tent in an Oxford college courtyard and enjoy the beautiful serenity (but be equipped with an inflatable raft in case of floods).

I was able to experience the wondrousness of Oxford last week, participating in a Vision for the Developing World Conference. Ophthalmologic and optometric specialists from around the world gathered with implementers (us at the Partnership for Child Development) to discuss and develop plans for providing vision correction to schoolchildren in low income countries. ("Spectacles" is now one of my favorite British English words. It joins "rubbish" and "brilliant.") I gained invaluable insight into the policy process and met a number of really knowledgeable dedicated experts. I felt rather foolish, however, when I couldn't make out the smaller fonts on the PowerPoint presentations. Er, I left my glasses at home (perhaps in Pocatello?).

The awesome people with whom I work. And perhaps the only time everyone has been in the same country the entire summer.

Well, it’s been a sports filled couple of weeks, and my love for London keeps growing as it hosts some of the world’s greatest athletic events, including Wimbledon and the Tour de France.

Two Thursdays ago I ended up popping over to the All England Tennis Club after work. We only had to queue for an hour for ₤12 ground tickets (and I got a pretty sweet “I’ve Queued at Wimbledon 2007” Q-shaped sticker, well, six to be precise) before passing through airport level security (the lady to my left had to trash a pointy hair clip). Unfortunately, most of the top seeds had demolished their opponents that afternoon, so we settled for a random gentlemen’s doubles match. In between sets we enjoyed some delightful strawberries and cream (note that the cream is not as solid as I had expected) and soaked up the atmosphere on the hill outside Court 1, furnished with a big screen TV broadcasting the major matches. We then headed back to the doubles, and what a match it was. Suffice it to say, French and Brazilian tempers flared (result of a certain shoulder “bump” incident), the Mexican wave oscillated around the stands (still not certain why the Brits add the adjective), and play stretched into the twilight hours in a tight five-setter that lasted longer than any other matches of the day (have I mentioned that the sun sets at 10:30 p.m. here?).

Saturday saw the other side of the sun, as one of my bestest friends from home, who is studying in Spain for the summer, came for a visit. We explored the city in the morning (questing fruitlessly for Tesco muffins), planning on settling down for le Tour de Londres, the prologue of le Tour de France, an hour or two before the 3:00 p.m. race start. Much to our chagrin, the spectators were already thronging along the course by 10:30 a.m., so we quickly found a fence side spot three-quarters of the way down, alternately napping and reading with our backs to the course, which some later arriving cycling enthusiasts apparently found highly despicable. After the longest parade of my life (seriously, the French know how to do floats), the riders surveyed the route on a couple practice rounds before the real deal started. It took them less than ten minutes to cover about five miles, but with a one minute staggered start for each rider and 189 riders, well, you do the math. We also were unsuccessful in procuring the inflatable pink T-Mobile shirts (sorry daddies, no souvenirs), but we did manage to snap a number of pictures. (Warning: This album will probably only be remotely interesting to the most avid cyclists. I apologize for the poor photographic skills.)

Emmeaux et Kristeaux à le Tour de France. (Pardon my French.) Sadly, -eaux does not rhyme with “moo,” as we had believed for so many years, but rather it rhymes with “mow.”

The Queen really does milk this monarch bit for all its worth. On Saturday, I went to “Trooping the Colour,” which is basically a big birthday parade for her, only to find out that she was actually born in April. Additionally, a friend studying abroad in New Zealand said they had a birthday celebration for the Queen two weeks ago and another in Australia when she visited there last week. If it were me, I’d distribute the wealth more evenly over entire the year, but I guess she can do what she wants. She is the Queen.

So in addition to adjusting to royalty, I’ve undergone an identity modification. Kirstie must be a much more popular name here than Kristie. The vast majority of people call me Kirstie when they first meet me, and even those who know it’s Kristie revert ever so often to the “i” before the “r.” Which is quite all right with me as I kind of like it better.

What I don’t like better is the public library system. I’m pretty sure they don’t want you to read. (Kind of like a certain study abroad office I know that doesn’t want you to study abroad...) All I wanted was a book to read during the forty-five minute commute to work, but it took me three trips to two different libraries just to procure a borrower’s card. And of course after I’d finally successfully checked a book out, I set off the detector alarm system, but I just kept my head down, walked briskly, and pretended not to notice the security officer motioning me over from his desk. Library crime. It ain’t pretty, but there are only so many months in the summer. Anyway, I must prepare for my meeting with a future knight in the morning. Parasites are the coolest.

So let’s go back to Monday morning, June 4, 2007. I have been in London for approximately two days, and I have absolutely no idea when, where, or if I’ll be interning with the organization I had planned out over the last four months. Having heard nothing from the director email-wise in approximately one and a half months, I attempted to call her Saturday night, but to no avail. On Monday I located where I was supposedly working, but the fortress of an academic building appeared impenetrable without a security key card. Discouraged and admittedly dismayed about my prospects, I returned home and, in a last ditch attempt, emailed someone the director had cc-ed on a random message. Much to my surprise and relief, I received a reply within ten minutes, was on the phone with another future co-working within twenty, and was set up with a pseudo desk, background reading, and plan of action by the next day.

It’s pretty much been bliss since then. The people I work with are awesome; they’re extremely patient as a bumble along, requiring guidance and asking questions at practically every step. The work itself is super exciting, and I’m learning so much in the field of school health and nutrition. My main task right now involves writing and responding to emails upon emails, which Beth Crawley might say is my calling. Office life is never dull, from the occasional flaming poppadum incident (I had nothing to do with it) to the discussion of every three letter acronym you can throw together (SHN, OVC, KAP, MoE, SCF, FLE, SPW...). Oh, and apparently the reason for the Fort Knox-ness (even inside you have to swipe your card to access practically every hallway or room) is that animal testing is conducted in the basement. The Brits are not so much a fan of that. Like to the point of murder.

Anyway, life outside the office is splendid as well. The church I’ve been going to is brilliant (a favorite word here), and I met someone from Idaho Falls at the student group. What are the chances? After an unfortunate incident being crushed in the back doors of a double decker bus (tricky “No Entry” signs), I’ve become quite familiar with public transportation. Small shops line every thoroughfare, ranging from Chicken Land to Ladbrokes (you’d think a gambling franchise could come up with a bit more encouraging name). Also note: bookmakers to not actually make books. On the docket now is photographic documentation, which is always a stretch for me. Maybe if I were obsessed with flowers...

Have I ever mentioned I detest Chicago O’Hare from the very depths of my soul? Nothing good ever comes from this place. Never, ever, ever, ever. As I wait at gate M12 for a flight delayed three hours, with blinding lightening and booming thunder and stalled planes on the runway stretching far as the weary eye can see, I figure perhaps I should catch up on blogging. I’ve been a stranger to for-fun-writing (did I just say those three words together?) and for-fun-reading since January.

As one of my favorite Princess Bride characters would say, to sum up, the last four months have included school, a wonderful week in the mountains of Virginia, graduation (note: sashes are always awkward), Littleton (a North Carolina Community of Excellence and home to my marvelous blue room), and finally home home. It was just best to clear out of the house as my mother was preparing for Genessa’s graduation shindig. Little did my grandma and great aunt know that they would absolutely not be on vacation. Their time in Pocatello was something much more akin to indentured servitude.

These months have also been spent trying to secure the ever elusive summer job. At one point the options included researching sickle cell anemia in the Nilgiri hill tribes of southern India, drugging stressed-out fruit flies and recording how long they survive in North Carolina, working with a global public health organization creating a web-based database of information in London, and interning with hazardous waste management in Idaho. I personally would have preferred the shock value of the last option, but the penultimate choice turned out to be best. So here I am, sitting in Chicago, awaiting the flight to London and a pretty awesome summer doing what I want to do for the rest of my life. (Oh, and lugging Big Blue around the Tube whenever I get there tomorrow should be pretty good. People are going to love me.)

Why can’t I be nearly as cool as my grandma?

Note: This article, which appeared in the Denver Post in 1948, contains a couple inaccuracies. Jerry (Geraldine) Barron was not wearing a bathing suit, and it wasn’t a garden hose. It was a fire hose.

6. Pocatello’s Wild West legacy extends beneath the old town with a series of underground tunnels, home to illegal gambling parlors.