Watch: the Fabulous and the Functional (Week 3)

I love watches. Classic elegant, neon green rubber, suave leather, blingy gold, snap-on pink  – so many options, it's just so exciting. As a fashion-forward child, I always wanted a watch (because I would go through them pretty quickly; don't ask how). Unfortunately, I never needed a watch. No one really does. In elementary school, I couldn't tell time anyway. Junior high and high school were dominated by bells telling people when to leave and come, and every classroom and hall way had at least one clock. Besides, around the time of high school, everyone had cell phones for the time. Watches were basically obsolete, functionally; they became merely a fashion accessory.

Ever since I got a cell phone, I stopped wearing my watch. Occasionally I'd wear one if I had an important test in an unfamiliar building or if I wanted to look more professional for a presentation. But most of the time, there was no need for it.

In London, there is a need for knowing the time all the time. I've worn my watch almost every day since I got here. And I'm not the only one. Places are pretty stingy with clocks, and phones have gotten so big they have to go in a purse or large pocket. Because it is so important to have the time right then, it is very difficult to dive into a purse, conduct a search for a phone, and emerge triumphant. It is much easy to wear a watch.

Before, I thought I was fairly monochronic with my time. I don't like to be late, and I follow schedules pretty well. In fact, it drives me nearly bonkers when someone flakes on me or fails to have a concrete plan. But I am nothing compared to the giant system of London. It runs on schedules and precise planning. London is Time, a giant clock commanding everyone's life.

A main cause of London's monochronic personality is the public transport. Usually, I'm not too bothered by waiting for the Tube or a bus because there is nowhere I have to be at a particular time. However, my Wednesday trips to Southampton are proving to be intensely involved. I have to be at Clapham Junction at a particular time to catch the train. To get to Clapham Junction, I have to switch from the District line to the Overground. Each change has to be calculated so I will have enough time to catch the right train. If I'm late, I miss the train, and I have to wait and wait forever until there is another one. If I'm early, I have to wait some more.

Because trains are supreme, people wait. Because everyone needs to be somewhere at a specific time, people wait. Because being late is frown on, people wait. The monochronic atmosphere in London forces a Molbius strip: monochronic system gives value to time which the inhabitants waste waiting for the monochronic system. Like time, this dilemma will not end.

Fight fight fight! (Week 2)

On my way home from school today, I saw something frightening–a fight almost broke out on the tube. Yes, Londoners were actually snapping at each other and being very rude. More specifically, a business man (in a tailored suit–need I say more) was arguing with a tube worker A perfect storm of a long day and tired people, the antsy disagreement crescendoed into fifteen to twenty minutes of waiting for the tube to continue on its way. (Note to future self: don't argue against the man with the power to hold the train; you can't win.)

It was about seven, the end of a long work day. And a Wednesday no less. The tube, like usual at rush hour, was pretty crowded. Because we were at Clapham Junction (the end of the line), hordes of people were waiting while everyone got off. Naturally, it took a while to unboard and reboard. When everyone was getting on, somehow the door kept closing. There are a thousand of reasonable explanations as to why. Well, at least two: it just does that or someone kept knocking the close open accidentally. But some tired P.U.S (poor unfortunate soul) was convinced it was the station worker purposefully closing the door on him. I guess when P.U.S gets tired, his mind doesn't make very logical conclusions. Then again, maybe he actually does believe the world revolves around him and his suit.

Whatever the reason, his mind or his suit, the P.U.S stood there, hating the tube. While he never raised his voice, the P.U.S kept arguing with the man with the power–the tube worker. "You're abusive, that's what," said the P.U.S, repeatedly. I couldn't actually hear what the worker said ever, but I gathered that he wanted the P.U.S to step off the train to deal with the situation. Of course, however, the P.U.S had other ideas, namely he wanted to go home. Unfortunately, so did everyone else except the worker, who held the train. For twenty odd minutes. Waiting the the P.U.S.

Later, once we were out of the line of fire, I started to think about the clash of personalities. In the US, I don't think the people in the compartment would have been so quiet. During the incident, there was one man who would periodically yell for the P.U.S to quit arguing, and one mother with an autistic child who was worrying (and the child who was...getting anxious). Oh, and one other man who was trying to smooth out the situation. Everyone else was either silent or having a very quiet conversation with one other person. In the US, this probably would have been upgraded to calling the police to subdue the train because everyone would want to have his opinion known. As it was in London, I think people were super annoyed with P.U.S (at least, I was), and I think they were surprised at the argument and didn't know exactly how to handle it. So, being English, most minded their own business.

Journey to Southampton (Week 1)

I always thought how quaint the Tube stations' names are: Parsons Green, Picadilly, Oxford Circus, Clapham Junction. They just sound so innocent and utterly English, like you can just stroll through the station with your umbrella tapping out a melody on the ground. Not true. Usually, that same umbrella is sopping wet. The stroll is in fact a mad dash from station to station, desperately ducking out of the mass of suits' way. Case in point: Clapham Junction. I supposed I assumed it was a junction of old lanes with a history of being where Queen Victoria would walk with her husband or where Cynthia caught the London Coach. I never thought of the vast network of rail work, hordes of uptight businessmen, and the stench of stale coffee. There were 18 platforms. 18! It was a stressful maze. But we managed to catch the right train (to Woking, as it happened). I truly felt British when we successfully transformed to another train to Southampton to meet with the dreaded Dr. Woods.

As it turns out (as things like this usually do), Dr. Woods doesn't actually bite. Or snarl or glare. He did sort of bounce off the walls a bit, but he was willing to sit still long enough to actually have a conversation with me. He was interested in my project, and worked with me on it by asking me questions while helping me answer the tricky ones. It was interesting–he was clearly the more intelligent one, but I was still in charge of my project. A good start for my statistics.

One odd note: Brits have a strange obsession with shut doors. The math building I was in was small (tall, but narrow) but each floor had at least four sets of doors for halls and staircases, and all the office and classroom doors were closed, making the halls very dark and claustrophobic.