After a week-long trip all over Italy for spring break, money was tight and I decided to lay low for the weekend, maybe explore the city a bit. A few friends offered me a ticket to Dublin for the weekend, but I had gone in January and knew that as insane as St. Patrick's Day in Dublin would be, I would spend far too much money and might not come back alive.

The original plan was to hit the pubs while the AM was still upon us. However, pre-St. Patty's Day festivities that went until 3 AM at the Roxy prevented an early start on the big day. By 2 PM, we were awake and still not feeling so festive.

A few hours passed. I went with my friend Juan to a traditional St. Patrick's Day dinner at a, well, Argentinan restaurant near South Kensington Station called Gauchos. The place is a small basement joint with about 15 to 20 tables, and you've got to climb down a narrow spiral staircase from the street to get in. It was my first experience with Argentinian food, and I was pretty impressed.

Following a filling meal and some good conversation over a smoke (yes, smoking is still allowed in UK bars and restaurants until summer 2007), we decided to head back to the house and see who was up to hit a few pubs.

We got back and most people had already taken off for the bars. As we were cursing ourselves for staying so late, we ran into a couple girls in the house who had travelled to Brighton for the day and got back late, also missing the departure of the crowd to the pubs. We came to the consensus that we should head to a pub and salvage the night, so we grabbed a pint at the station and took the Piccadilly Line train over to Leicester Square.

Upon arrival, we learned rather quickly that the drink had been flowing most of the day for quite a few blokes. The crowds wandering the square were "happier" than usual and many were sporting the gigantic Guinness hat along with the abundance of green. While trying to find O'Neill's, our Irish drinking destination, our wanderings around the chaotic streets were unmemorable. The one memory I do have is of one girl rushing out of a club to catch up with her friends, yelling, "How DARE you leave me in there!" in an angry British accent. We got a laugh out of it and kept moving, for it was freezing and the pub was still not in sight.

We made it to O'Neill's only to find a line about 20 people deep outside the door of this small pub. We decided it would be more prudent to go to the pub across the street and get things started rather than wait out in the bitter London cold. Upon entering, wading through the thick crowd proved to be a challenge, and the girls, who were almost at the bar, told me they would grab me a drink. Fantastic!

I hung around for a bit, taking it all in, when an actual Irish lad beside me grabbed my attention and asked where I was from. I told him I was from America and immediately he was like, "Oh, **** off..." I knew that probably was not the best route to take, so I corrected myself and said "Oh, I'm from Boston, man!" (Boston was a safe bet with the Irish).

"Boston, man! Fantastic!" We exchanged stories for a bit, backgrounds and the like, took some swigs of Guinness, said cheers and went our separate ways.

One great thing about this holiday is that everyone is in such a good mood. I looked around the pub and saw everyone smiling, conversing with strangers and friends alike, simply having a good time. Only one day of the year is it truly like that no matter where you go.

We ended up making it into O'Neill's a few drinks later and the place was a madhouse. People stood shoulder to shoulder, swigging beers and smoking cigarettes, and U2 blasting from the speakers. As I was making my way to the bar I noticed the big green top hats people had on and requested a few caps free of charge with my Guinness. We proceeded to the back and soaked up the last few hours of the holiday before the lights came up and the crowd was ushered out.

Many of my friends from back home thought St. Patrick's Day in London would be crazy. I must admit, however, that as much fun the night was here, this place has got nothing on Boston and (it hurts to say it) New York City. The parties in those two cities have London beat, hands down, even if London is a couple hundred miles from Dublin.

So you're probably wondering where I am going with this. Well, shortly into the first semester of the first year, we were introduced to Pepperdine's renowned International Programs division. The school owned houses in Florence, Heidelberg, and London, with additional programs in Hong Kong, Buenos Aires, and Lyon. I'm probably forgetting some but that's besides the point that I had quite a few options. Truthfully, I leaned towards London from the beginning because: a) there is no major language barrier, b) the history and worldly culture of the city, and c) my infatuation with British rock (i.e. The Beatles).

Long story short, I was accepted in the program for London in the Spring of '06. Problem was, I received this letter in November of '04, so I had quite the anticipation time and it helped to increase the anxiousness to leave America for the first time (not counting those weekend excursions to Tijuana and Montreal).

Finally, a few days after the ball dropped and our hangovers were expunged, I was on a plane from Boston to London aboard Richard Branson's dreamchild Virgin Atlantic. Ironically, the flight from Boston to London was shorter than the trip out to Malibu. Due to the time change, however, what was an early-evening departure in Boston became an early-morning arrival in London, a fast-forward of the night, if you will. Navigating from Heathrow Airport to the house (pictured right) is another story, for another time, however. I gotta keep some fresh material!

That is it from here for now. I hope you all have a good idea of how I actually ended up in London from way back in the redundant shirt-tie-blazer-khaki days at Hendricken. I will be adding more soon!