Are you there society? It's me, Carie.

I woke up early on my St. Christopher's top bunk, eager to get out into London and far, far away from the stench of beer, guy who shakes the bed guy, and marijuana that still lingered on my pillow.

Even better, I hoped, I wanted to avoid any conversations with my roommates, whom I'm summarily declared not fabulous enough to waste morning breathe or pre-1 p.m. wit on. I almost made it.

As I dashed back into the room after showering, I noticed guy who shakes the bed guy had emerged from under his sheets.

Disappointing, I thought, as he straightened himself up to full height.

He's neither German or beastly. In fact, I discovered now that the lights were on, he was quite stringy and blonde-topped. A little like a younger, less dashing Prince William.

"Morning," he said, gathering his things. English, too.

"Mmm. I'm Carie. What's your name?" I asked.

He interrupted.

"When are you leaving?"

Shocked, I withdrew the previously extended hand and glowered at him.

"Look, just because you've been praying for God to deposit some hot chick on your top bunk and instead I landed upstairs, don't be rude."

He didn't say anything but I detected a smile.

"Monday," I said.

"Fair enough."

With that, I grabbed my London map and darted from the room as fast as possible.

Since Mike wouldn't be arriving for a few days, I prioritized the things I hoped to get accomplished before he arrived and we started exploring together.

1) Shopping
2) British Musuem
3) Imperial War Musuem "Great Escapes" exhibit
4) Cabinet War Rooms
5) Shopping

Eager to get started, I hopped the train and the tube to Oxford Circus, a great midpoint for exploring London's mid-range shopping options. (In other words, it's trendy and young without being Harrod's or Burberry and Gucci.)

Just as I ascended the escalator, I knew it was the perfect stop. There, perched on the corner between the Gap and United Colors of Bennetton was my shopping mecca.... H&M. Four floors of cheap sweaters, trendy skirts, and poorly assembled shoes.

I was practically salivating.

After loading my arms with various skirts, tank tops, and sale merchandise, I headed to the storeroom where Helga, the cropped top, wearing 17 layers none of which could still manage to stretch over her belly button, salesgirl gave me a frosty glare and then handed me my room key, handing it over as if she was trading day-old fish fillets.

Bloody, bloody British, I thought, can't even offer a smile.

No matter, however, I was in heaven.

I forked over my credit card after selecting a clearance-sale top for a mere £2.50, mentally catalogued a skirt, a sweater, and a pair of earrings for possible revisiting, and headed back out into the streets for more shopping.

Next stop: Topshop.

It was here that my shopping bravado began to dim.

As I took the elevator past emaciated manequins (Are they thrusing out their hips!?!?!), I took stock of my fellow shoppers. All tiny. All impeccably groomed. All squealing into their cell phones. All wearing the aforementioned - hey I've got on 17 layers but none of them manage to cover my ass - ensemble. All under 20.

No bother, I thought, shifting my Burberry tote and rearranging my American Eagle Sweater. Who cares what they look like? I am fabulous...

Ten steps later, I was in the middle of the showroom, lost in a maze of feathery tank tops, fake-fur vests, knee-high boots and barely-there tank tops.

Who wears this stuff? I wondered as I picked the (pieces of) clothes off the rack. And who pays £40 to do it?

Oh, her.

And her.

And bloody Hell, is that a grandmother?

I beelined out of there.

A bit discouraged but nonetheless optimistic, I headed for the perfect shop for a fashionable girl who's actually not fashionable enough to create her own vintage look: Urban Outfitters.

I didn't last long there either.

Then there was Next and River Valley and Zara. A little Benetton. A little Marks and Spencer.

I didn't last long in any of them.

Cursing both the resilience of the pound and my own lack of fashion savvy, I retreated to Borders to grab a book to read over lunch.

Desperate, I finally went to the one place I swore I wouldn't touch while abroad: The Gap. (Seriously, why shop somewhere that's in Crabtree?) As I got closer, my pace quickened and by the time I reached the doors, I practically bolted downstairs to the women's room.

Here, I thought, I can finally be amongst sizes I understand. Jeans that fit just right. Sweaters fit for any Raleigh prep. Colors of pastel and burgundy.

Here, I thought, THEY HAVE BARELY THERE SPARKLY SWEATERS THAT TIE AT THE ARMS AND THE WAIST?

Even the Gap was out to get me. (Although I did grab two shirts.)

I'm just not cut out for London fashion.

So, I headed to the next priority on the list, The Brisih Musuem.

Now, the British Musuem or "How the Brits raped the world of civilization" as I like to call it, is a monstrosity of historical relics and curiousities. Although the British didn't do anything with them theirselves, their collections house the Rosetta Stone, much of the Parthenon, most of the bounty from Egyptian grave robbers, and a host of significant pieces from every region of the world.

It's the kind of place that actually produced a brochure entitled, "Why we wouldn't give the Greeks back the benchmark of their civilization in time for the Olympics." Well, that's paraphrasing it but still.

I've seen the highlights of the musuem before but wanted to spend more time in the Egyptian exhibit and perhaps looking at the lesser-known galleries. So, shopping bags in tow, I headed in to explore.

I started in the Egyptian gallery, three cavernous rooms filled with ancient mummies, tomb relics and sarcophaguses. For nearly an hour, I wandered through, marveling at the intricate designs of the coffins, delighting in stories of Egyptian ritual and admiring the sheer size of the sarcophaguses.

Then, as I reached the more primitive exhibits, it turned a bit weird.

Prior to such notions as historical preservation or, well, resting in peace, some ancient grave robbers and scientists thought that unwrapping mummies might be the key to understanding the complexities of Egyptian burials (today they just do a CAT scan.) Therefore, the British Musuem has within its collection a large number of unwrapped or barely wrapped bodies. In addition, they have displays of unwrapped bodies discovered in more primitive burial sites - such as holes in the group or wooden boxes.

It was... well... morbid.

I mean, I have no problem looking at an ornate drawing on the outside of the tomb but the actual body? Just lying there with no way to defend itself? I couldn't decide if it was sudden recognition of my own mortality that sent me sprinting to the door or the creepy feeling that, thousands of years ago, these mere mortal died, only to be dug up and oggled by viser-wearing, digital camera tourists, in downtown London.

Shudder.

After a quick cafe break to refuel (indeed, the bodies did nothing to hamper my appetite), I headed back to wander the other galleries.

Totem poles from British Columbia.... tribal dress from middle Africa... trinkets from the Enlightenment. There I was, a history major no less, standing amidst one of the world's greatest collection of antiquities and all I was really thinking way, "Ah, a golden globe. Right then, so did H&M have those red shoes I was admiring? Or was that Shelley's? They would look totally cute with a red scarf and that sparkly black shirt... could I pull that off....."

Now, before you pass judgment, shake your head and mutter "superficial plebian" under your breath, I'd like to defend myself by offering up the fact that while the British Musuem is breathtaking in its catalogue, it is sparce in its sense of historical display. It's pretty difficult to orient oneself to the time and place that the artifacts fall or their significance within a long line of historical chronology. It lacks the true colorful stories that would ordinarily give such objects life. Therefore, I say, it was entirely not my fault when I wandered outside the musuem and back to Oxford Circus.

(Although I did mournfully contemplate for a bit what this must mean about my academic prospects. What decent historian, I thought, hightails it out of a noted musuem for shopping?!?! For shoe shopping?)

Back on Oxford Circus, however, I shopped a bit more in vain then headed to Border's, where I treated myself to a new book and a tall caramel macchiato. (Say what you will about Starbuck's but when you don't have it anymore, it's suddenly the most precious commodity.)

I have to admit, it was grand.

It didn't matter that I was sitting in the midst of one of the world's liveliest cities, that down below my two-story perch people were linking arms and heading to the theatre or dining on expensive cuisine before going to concerts. Because sitting in Starbuck's, surrounded my other singles flipping through magazines or friends bowing heads over a piece of gossip, I felt totally relaxed. In between pages, I would pause to just watch the people walking below or sitting next to me and jot down notes that might - or might not - make their way into fiction later. I took my time, savored the feeling of having nowhere to be, and just read for hours. I didn't feel the least bit guilty about "wasting" a night in London by myself in a coffee shop.

I headed back to the hostel around 10. While walking back to my room, I suddenly realized that I hadn't spoken, really spoken, to anyone all day. Besides "thanks" or "tall macchiato" or "wait a second, I was going to buy those," that is. As I crawled up on my bunk, my temporary Starbuck's high faded and was replaced by... well... loneliness. I had no one to share my shopping bounty and no one to bring down to the bar. Tomorrow, I realized as the pit in my stomach grew, I wouldn't have anyone either. Sadly, I wondered what my flatmates were doing at that hour.

Quiz night, I thought with a moan. Without me.

Just then, I received a text from Ben about a meeting the next week. Seizing the opportunity, I called him in Derry to find out how things had progressed with his plans for a civil rights seminar. Really, I just wanted to make sure that my voice worked. After a few minutes of chatting, however, I was back on my own and curled up and feigned sleep around 11.

Mike Solomon, you bloody fool, I thought, get here soon.