Security friskings & my new boyfriend in LONDON!!!

Sometimes I feel like my blog titles give deceptive hope to my blog contents. For that I'm sorry. Buuuuuut oh well, now that you're here you might as well keep reading this bullocks.

That's a new word I learned in London. :D heh. Okay so I have skipped loads of my life on here because I've been super busy...or if I haven't been busy, I've been sleeping. So I'll try to catch everyone up on the NEXT post about everything that has happened between Thanksgiving and now. But this is about LONDON!!

Katie & I's flight left at 6:30 a.m. Friday morning to head to London...set to arrive at 8:30 local time. That means we needed to be at the airport by like 5:30, and leave our house by 5:20ish. Public transportation starts at like 7 a.m. so that wasn't an option. Instead of spending 20 euros on a taxi we decided to catch the last metro on Thursday night and camp out at the airport. It worked out decently well. We slept on the floor of Barajas, along with many other hobos, and I had awful flashbacks to when I first got to Madrid and was profoundly depressed, haha. Luckily this trip was quite the contrary! I hid my cell phone in my bra as my alarm and we managed to snag about 3 hours of sleep in total before it was time to check in and head through security.

I think my bad karma with airport security started back in 2005. On my trip to Mexico, I couldn't take off some silver bangles I had been wearing for 2 years, so security told me I could take them off or get frisked. I was lazy and didn't feel like forcing them off, so I went ahead and offered myself up for getting patted down. Ever since then, airport securities have been on my ass. Or I've had awful luck. Or both.

On my way here, from Indy, I was so traumatized by saying goodbye to my friends and family and dealing with the fact that I'd be here for a year that I blew through security, put my shoes on quickly, and jetted towards my gate. Except I forgot my carry on bag on the security conveyor belt. I had my purse, jacket, and presents from friends...but forgot the luggage bag. By the time I realized a team of airport security was already surrounding my little wine colored bag and about 5 different guards were waving metal detectors at my bag and calling the bomb squad. They were less than thrilled when I told them I forgot it and of course didn't believe me anyways. They also wanted me to prove it was mine. Ummm...brilliant job, Indy security. let's play "guess what's in my bag". Boring. Anyways that was dumb enough. But not dumb enough as what I did on the way to London.

So I go through security, take off my shoes, and first notice the severely butch and burly security guard behind the gates, just waiting for someone to set off the metal detectors. I made sure I took off all of my earrings, jewelry, watches, everything. Took the coins out of my pockets. Everything. So I walk through, seeing the eager beaver just waiting for me. I get 3/4 of the way through when it beeps. LUCKILY the woman in front of me was a terrorist or something because she got nabbed by the butch security guard and I got pulled aside by the pretty Spanish security guard who looked thoroughly annoyed that I was beeping. I stepped through again, and nothing. She asked (still annoyed) if I was wearing a belt. I said no. She asked if I had a pace maker. I said no. I told her I was wearing a bra, though. She didn't seem to care at all, although I think she should have thanked me because it probably made her job more pleasant. So, reluctantly, she performed the "invasive" search that Jeri had warned me about before. Got to 2nd base with that security guard, for sure. She started at my arms and then still, super reluctantly, felt all around my chest, between my boobs, under my boobs, in, around, if she could have gone behind my boobs she would have, then in between my legs, shins, feet, etc. It was surprisingly quick and after all of it I was kind of annoyed that I had to go through it for nothing. It was probably because of my zipper, I thought. Which could happen to anybody.

We get to the gate, and still have an hour before we can board because we checked in so early. So I start looking for my cell phone to set my alarm again. And I can't find it. So I think shit, I left it back on the floor where we hobo-ed it up for the night. I really didn't want to have to explain to the annoyed security guard that I left my cell phone, plus it was probably already gone by one of the other real hobos anyways. Crap. Pissed, I just cannot imagine where I put it. Where'd I have it last?? Good reading if you guessed my bra....because it was definitely there. Yes, I trumped airport security. Completely accidentally, I went through with my cell phone wedged in there. AND unhappy security guard lady never even found it. At first I felt like a dumbass...and I am. BUT THEN I realized that's freakin stupid because what if I wasn't a terrorist and had decided to smuggle a hand gun through or something?! So much for this strict security business.

The fear of clever terrorists mixed with the awul turbulence we had on the way there made for a very emotionally hectic plane ride for me. Katie was passed out right after take-off. It also didn't help that I was listening to my London playlist (consisting of strictly Beatles and the Mary Poppins soundtrack) and everytime we hit turbulence a very disruptive song would play (like Hey Jude at the end when Paul starts screaming weirdly...that's so nervewracking during impending death). Anyways we get to London, do Londony things, take potentially 50 pictures or more of Big Ben from every angle possible (wait for the pictures), risk my life feeding the birds in St. James Park (all whilst screaming "Feed the birds" from Mary Poppins in an awful British accent), taking many pictures of me feeding the birds, and shopping. I also declared that Big Ben is my boyfriend. I am in love. Anyways, during the shopping, I found numerous bras on sale for like 5 pounds each. I was EXCITED, seeing how my bra size is 100D in Europe sizes...right?! Anyways I bought the bras but we didn't check any bags because it cost too much. So I ended up shoving them all in my purse. They fit and everything, along with all of my souvenirs, but then I go through security again and something in my bag looks "suspicious". So I end up getting pulled aside and chatting with this lovely middle-aged British security guard who asks politely if he can invasively go through all of my items in my purse and do some chemical tests on them. I say of course. First, he finds approximately 10 shot glasses with my boyfriend on them. He asked if I was planning on inducing a lot of drinking. Funny bloke (another British word :D) anyways, he checks them for chemicals with this little wand he had, and continues. I explained that my friends were alcoholics, not me. Love you all. Anyways he keeps going and later finds the four bras in my purse...and made some awkward comment about looking like a rockstar with all of my alcohol paraphenalia and extra sexy underwear. I'm glad I can reflect so positively on America, haha.

Anyways his chemical wand that he rubbed on everything looked like a Swiffer duster pad. Except he took off the cloth and ran it through a chemical machine to see if I had any bomb-y things on my bras. Because they're so dangerous. If he would have been cuter I would have told him I didn't need chemicals to make my lingerie explosive. Guess that's inappropriate. I didn't. Anyways he cleared my stuff and left me in the middle of everybody to repack my purse and figure out how to make it all fit again. With my bomb-free London goodies.

So, finally, after a 2 hour delay because of another strike in Madrid, I made it home. Safely. With everything I went with. And I fell in love. Successful trip!! And many pictures to follow!!

...and then I got molested by a 7 year old.

I have updates this week as well as way too many awkward stories. They're all inappropriate so you've officially been warned.

General Nun has been on her A-game this week. For sure. I think I've forgotten to mention that she will flat out tell me to my face that I don't know English, sometimes, because British English is more correct than my “American”. So one day I was trying to explain “blender”. She says “no, we call it a mixer”. In class I slipped up and said “this is what we call a blender!” “OR ees what we call a meexair. Ees from dee Breeteesh. Ees more right.”
General Nun: 1. Chelsea: in the negative too far to count. Anyways the kids this week have been learning transportation. She went around the room asking the kids “MY BABIES, how jew get to da school?”

Nun: Tell me, baby, how jew get to school?
Student 1: I go to school by bus.
Student 2: I go to school by car.
Student 3: I go to school by car.
Student 4: I go to school by foot, then by tube, den by foot.

...I think I did that Scooby Doo double take thing where I'm like...wait what?? So I asked “how do you get by school?” And the student asks “uh...ees how jew you say, Metro? Tube?” NO. That's not how you say Metro. The only place on Earth that says “tube” is London. And it's just a general term. You can't say you take a tube to school. That makes you sound crazy, like you were Harry Potter or something. Lord.

Me: Oh, okay. I see. We just say Metro.
Nun: oh, jess? Well jew must have stolen from here! Ees “tube” een Engliss.

Gotcha. You'd know best. Other mishaps she's made this week:
“Jew can say ees good or is...? BUTT!! Jess, butt ees de opposhit of good.”
“One boy ees tall...de udder ees shot. One boy ees fat, de udder ess teen.”

Or better yet, she got in a fight this week with one of the students. This is the best tactic yet:

Student: ees pretty de same as handsome?
Nun: Jess, my God my baby, jess ees de same!!! Jew make me so angry!!
Student: well te quiero!! (I love you)
Nun: I HATE JEW MY BABY!!

Caps means loud screaming 3 inches from his face, by the way.

Other updates in school: Joan, the boy from the previous post who insists on calling himself “Essexy boy” has now added 2 other names to his nametag in class: “Blak strong”, “rompe dientes (break teeth)”, and Coby Brayan (spelled just like that). He told me to call him Blak Strong first. I told him I thought that might be racist. Maybe. I'm glad he's proud of being black though, haha. Clearly.

I'll end on a high note with my lowest point of today. Potentially lowest point of Spain thus far. At recess, I always talk to my students and say hello, even though on Thursdays I am allowed to leave after class. I have noticed, though, that my younger students are never there. Turns out there is a specific little patio, underneath their raised gymnasium, for 1st and 2nd graders. The roof is barely tall enough for the teachers to walk under it so it's a perfect little lair for the little munchkins. Anyways on my way out, three of my students found me and started yelling (as per usual) CHELSEA!! CHELSEA!! LOOK IT'S CHELSEA!! By the time I made it over to the ramp down to the lair, all of the kids rushed me and created a little people wall so I couldn't get any further. They had also managed to tell all of their friends so about 50 different kids were hugging me and pushing the other kids trying to get to me to hug me as well. It's really cute when it happens IN the classroom because usually only 12 kids (maximum) rush me at once. Here I felt absolutely attacked. While the students were hugging me, they all started shoving each other like a mosh pit trying to knock others out of the way to get attention as well. One of the little girls started yelling “TERREMOTO!!! TERREMOTO!!!!” (earthquake). I told her “that's earthquake. Say “earthquake!” so she started screaming “EARTHQUAKE!!! EARTHQUAKE!!!!!!! EARTHQUAAAAAAAAKE!!!”

Meanwhile, sneaky little Diego made it through the crowd and managed to grab me from my right side. Instead of grabbing my arm, which I kindly stretched out for him, he grabbed around it and held my hip as well as my right boob. Firmly. I would also like to add that Diego is the 2nd grader who continually says “hello Chelsea!! Jew are berry beauteeful today!” I used to think it was innocent. I don't anymore. One accidental grab....okay. However for about 30 seconds he continually squeezed and released my chest as if it were a stress ball. Practice that for 30 seconds. CLEARLY it's not an accident. I kept trying to shake him off, but to no avail. He KEPT doing it so I literally tried to shake him off, finally deciding that risking busting him in the face with my elbow and giving him a bloody nose would be worth it to stop him from molesting me. I think the look of sheer panic on my face was really obvious because the students started asking “Chelsea, do you want us to leave you alone?” (in Spanish, of course) and I said “no, it's okay, I just...I need to go home. House!” and did the international symbol for house (hands pointed above your head like a roof. Works every time) and finally they got the message. Eventually I shook Diego loose from his death grip (he didn't let go...instead he said “she wants us to leave her alone!!” to all of the kids while still firmly holding my  boob. That's actually false. I wanted you to let go of my chest. And not have ever done it in the first place) All of the kids hugged me one more time before I left and one little girl even kissed me on the cheek. When I got home I found a lovely crusty circle on my cheek from God knows what she was eating for breakfast. I think I'm permanently scarred for life.