the british are coming...!

Last night I went to my first frat party of this school year. Save for the first-years and some off-campus people who were early coming back, the undergrad student body is not back yet, which means dealing with the awkwardness of big gaping spaces in big party places.

It was all right though, last night. My other permanent roommate, U., is back--to my sheer and utter joy--and I never really feel too uncomfortable if I'm near her. We sat on the porch and talked for a while, some friends (and friends' friends) around us. Even not talking, looking around contentedly and remembering what my classmates are like, was really enough for me to enjoy the night.

What I love about parties is this: you can meet people, randomly introduce yourself and talk, and not have to feel awkward about it. Few places offer that opportunity. You can't do it at train stops or bus stops, restaurants or movie theaters.

And so I met a small group of international students who came up, introduced themselves, and sat down. It amounted to one German guy and three British guys, all grad students in business. Here's something I'll admit, though it might be embarrassing or annoying: I love talking to foreign people. I love comparing countries and getting an outsider's perspective on America--you'll hear a lot of surprising things that way. And it's more fun to expand on differences than try to find similarities with the sloppily drunk, hovering stranger from New Jersey.

Hans (let's call him Hans) ended up being an excellent conversationalist. He wanted to know how I possibly entertained himself in Hyde Park, as there apparently is only one pub and I can't legally drink anyway. The drinking age was something he for some reason found endlessly amusing, and kept bringing up ("What do you do?!") and I tried to explain that it doesn't really stop anyone (I mean, come on, we were at a frat party) but he wouldn't have any of it.

I didn't pay much attention to any of the British guys until I realized, sort of strikingly, that I don't think I've ever even talked to a British guy. They were like an exotic species, suddenly, and I started trying to listen to them and Hans at the same time, which meant I spent a fair amount of time looking blankly at Hans as he talked, and pausing to register what he said before I replied.

When H. came out on the porch to join us I got sort of excited. "They're British!" I said, indicating the guys, remembering H.'s love for England. Hans started talking some more, but I caught the phrase "proper football" and a few other snippets. Like H. pointing out, "Hey.. you colonized my country" and the measured reply, "Yeah; sorry about that."

The British were, I guess, exactly how'd expect them to be: sarcastic, dry-humored, unimpressed. Mr. Darcy without the class maybe, a cynical Hugh Grant without the bumbling cuteness. Incredibly fun to talk to probably, but Hans was very attentive and they were very inattentive so I didn't really find out.

A short while later I found myself accompanying Hans, one British, and two Americans to an apartment party somewhere, and then I found myself halfheartedly playing something called "Flip-Cup" with the seven other people who comprised the party. Hans became increasingly comfortable and the increasingly handsy, so I used work this morning as an excuse, slipped on my shoes, and fled.

I hadn't told them that my apartment was literally 3 buildings away, and when I got inside one minute later it seemed very funny to me, like it was such a secretive thing to do, my own private joke.

Let it be known that frat parties are now redeemed in my mind.