This week's column was written by Bridget Dowd,  FCRH '13.

As an English major, studying abroad in England seemed to be an obvious choice. Just one month abroad has been enough, cheesy as it sounds, to alter my worldview. Adjusting to the metric system was a small step in acclimating myself to a completely new set of cultural standards.

Though I had thought studying in England implied a lack of language barriers, I had not anticipated befriending students from places such as Germany and Italy. Their fluency with my mother tongue makes me feel slightly inadequate for knowing no modern language besides English, and the obstacles that arise in simple conversation have given me a new appreciation for my own language and a realization of its idioms and intricacies. It is difficult to explain to someone whose first language is not English that wanting something "so bad" is, in fact, a good thing. Accomplishing such a feat is oddly satisfying, however. A few weeks ago a friend told me he "had the hunger." Now he tells me he "could eat an ‘orse."

Having been here for one month already, I have been constantly surprised by the similarities and differences between London and New York. I have come to realize that comparing the two is like comparing apples (or the Big one, anyway) with oranges.

Last weekend, I attended a concert by candlelight at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, a beautiful Anglican church in Trafalgar Square. While sitting in a pew high in the gallery, I was easily lost in a sense of history and ethereality created by the setting and the music. However, as one movement of Mozart's Requiem came to a close, a siren began wailing in the square outside, making me smile as I associated the sound with New York and wondered at the juxtaposition of history and modernity within London itself.

While studying abroad, I've found myself in the bizarre yet inevitable position that exists in the limbo between tourist and local. Yes, I have taken the obligatory red telephone booth photo, but I can also calmly direct frantic tourists to the museums they seek. I can rattle off the stops of the Jubilee Line on the Underground without thinking but still cannot remember my own (11-digit) phone number.

Each day brings new experiences along with increased levels of comfort. The curvy, oddly-named streets of London (so different from New York's neatly numbered grid) are slowly beginning to appear almost logical. I have given up on ever being able to navigate the Maughn Library, however, an intimidating, Hogwarts-esque building with stairways that end between floors and fireplaces in otherwise uninhabited hallways.

Regardless, one of the most defining moments of my experience thus far was the day I told a friend I was "heading home" on the tube. Though a simple expression, I realized how quickly this foreign city has become a home to me. As I sit in my flat in northern London, however, I look at the background of my computer screen — a picture of Keating in the snow. I now recognize how lucky I am to be able to claim these two cities as my own.