If I told you why I chose to study abroad in England, I’m sure I’d give a half-baked explanation involving language barriers and cooler climates.
Being surrounded by native English speakers and wearing scarves in September is very nice, but these factors pale in comparison with what else this fine country has to offer. Centuries of history? Architectural masterpieces? Nay, I chose England for Hugh Grant.
Yes, THAT Hugh Grant. Despite his infamous encounter with Miss Divine Brown, clearly he has redeemed himself by starring in excellent chick flicks like “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” “Notting Hill” and “About a Boy” (all of which I watched last week). I Googled him, and everything proves we are meant to be. We’re both Virgos. He went to Oxford University. I go to Oxford Brookes University. Although it is uncool for the Oxford Uni students to call Brookes the Early Learning Center. But that isn’t Hugh’s fault.
Sadly, Hugh doesn’t live in Oxford. So Muhammad must go to the mountain.
And what a dapper looking mountain he is. I took a trip to London, where a friend’s friend who studied abroad in London last year said her friends saw him at a cafe in Kensington. Remember that stalking is not a federal crime if nobody catches you.
So Amy and I hopped on a bus to London in pursuit of that once-floppy-haired fop. Just to let you know, I’m not referring to myself in the third person, nor developed multiple personalities. Amy is my downstairs dorm neighbor from Canada. Kids refer to her as CanadiAmy and I am called USAmy. Collectively, we are the American Amys.
Upon arrival we headed to Notting Hill. Not only is this the setting consecrated with the love of Julia and Hugh, but it turns out every Saturday the streets turn into a giant open market with inexpensive food and trendy knockoff clothing. Four shirts, two pairs of Union Jack socks, a skirt and a pair of boots later, we gave up the search in Notting Hill. I did stand in front of The Travel Bookstore, where Mr. Grant probably spent countless hours running his fingers through his tresses while studying a script.
Next, at CanadiAmy’s request we took the underground to the Tower of London and saw the prison of many fallen royals and the house of monstrous crown jewels. We walked to the Tower Bridge, where a glassy-eyed David Blaine in a box hung. Shut up. It’s his art! I think he fancies me because he waved through the little hole in the box. But Handsome Hugh was nowhere to befound!
Do you know where else he was not? Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square or several posh womens’ clothing stores.
So what happened? I think that maybe while I was driving to London, Hugh was on his way to visit his old haunts in Oxford and somewhere along the highway my bus and his limo crossed paths. But just wait, Hughie. You can’t escape fate.