September 26, 2007

I'm bored with the USA
Lucid in the streets of London

Ryan Lowell | contributing columnist
rlowell@smcvt.edu

“The trick is, you’ve got to realize that you’re dreaming in the first place.” – Waking Life

Everything is a mile-a-minute in the city.

It’s easy to get lost in the urban sprawl, especially if you’ve thrown yourself in without warning after nearly four months spent living in a town of about 1,000 people. The bright lights can hypnotize you into a daze, and if you don’t pay close attention, it can be difficult to tell where you even are.

In the movie Waking Life, there is a scene where a man tells the main character that there is a certain kind of dream so vivid that it can confuse dreamers into thinking they are living out their “actual” physical life. He goes onto describe how dreamers can actually train themselves to realize that they are in a dream, so they can more fully enjoy the freedom of the dream realm. This process is called a lucid dream, and I am attempting to have one at this very moment.

I’m having this recurring dream where I wake up in the city, just like any other city really. The buildings are huge, the streets are mobbed with fast-acting business people grabbing coffee at Starbucks, and the elevators in hotel lobbies play '90s pop-rock like Blues Traveller to calm your nerves and distract you from how slow they’re moving. Everything seems normal at a glance, until I put on my glasses in the afternoon, look at the clock, and realize it says 14:30. Where the hell am I?

During orientation, we’d been attending loads of meetings where they kept telling us we were in London, but it’s hard to tell when you’re constantly surrounded by other Americans. By the end of orientation, I had become almost inseparable from the other 20 students in my abroad program. This could be seen as great, but I’m really quite troubled by it.

Don’t get me wrong - it’s so comfortable to go out with these kids who are as enthusiastic about seeing Europe as I am; I mean we have so much more in common with each other than we do with the Brits. That being said, a pack of rabid Americans yelling “Oh my god, your name is Ryan, like The O.C. character” as they chow down on their quarter pounder with cheese seems to be British authenticity repellent. The local pub goers creep into the corners when we arrive as a group, if they even bother to stay at all.

But now that orientation is over, I have had the time to at least realize that this dream does indeed take place overseas, and I am in the process of making the most of my surroundings. I have moved into my University and am starting to part ways with my American friends in order to meet my flatmates without an intimidating entourage. By the way, I know I’m dreaming because about 65 to 75 percent of my peers here are female, and they all seem to like me. I’ve made mates with the gents as well, seeing how we don’t even have to get territorial over the girls. They woo our American “chicks” with their charming accents, and we dazzle their British “birds” with our picture-perfect pearly whites.