Page 6 of In For a Penny
“Over the courseofoneyear, you will have to take six compulsory modules and four elective modules,” the program director drones on. I’ve been sitting in this damn orientation for the past two hours. “We have modified the structure of the program differently from what it was when you applied, we know.But we believe you will come out stronger in the end, more prepared to take on the policy-making world.”
I roll my eyes and sigh. To be honest, I’m a bit depressed.As I sit in my uncomfortable chair under fluorescent lighting, I surprise myself by feeling a sense of disappointment. Deep down, Iwasexcited to continue to learn and not just happy to run away from heartbreak to another continent.
Ugh. Running away was stupid. Definitely not my proudest moment.
Though the curriculum change is a huge bummer, I can’t deny that I’m super excited about living in London, so at least there’s that. I’ve only been here for a couple of days, and I already feel myself falling in love with it. From my limited travel experience, I'd say that London is the city that resembles New York the most in all of Europe.
I still need to get used to the differences, like the lack of 24-hour-ness Londonclaimsto have but doesn’t. Like,where are your 24-hour pharmacies and bodegas, London?On my first night here, I suffered from jet lag and was dying for some Oreos at three am. I Googled for anything that was open but came up short. Even the DLR, my only mode of transportation at that time (because you can bet your ass I was not going to take the bus that late), was shut down then. What’s a girl to do when she’s got a major craving for cookies to fill her emotional eating needs but can’t find anywhere to get them? Suck it up? I’m a millennial from New York. I’m used to getting whatever I want at any hour of the day delivered to my house!
Aside from London’s inability to provide one with whatever they want whenever they want, it’s still a pretty amazing city.
No bagels, though. Sigh.
God, I’dmurdersomeone for a good bagel right now.
I’m so hungry I’m about two seconds away from chewing my arm off. I eye the long table at the back of the room where some waiters are setting up some drinks and finger sandwiches. I make a mental note to beeline it right over there as soon as the department director wraps it up. Before I turn back toward the front, I notice a pale, dirty-blond guy staring at me. I furrow my brow inquisitively at him. He smiles and turns back to the director. I wonder how long he’s been staring at me.
His hair is messy and unbrushed. He wears a gray North Face hoodie, plaid shorts, and flip-flops. He doesn’t seem to have put a lot of thought into what he’s wearing today.
Hemustbe American.Californian, for sure. Definitely not from the North East.
For a split second, I feel self-conscious and over-dressed in my black lace dress and stiletto heels. I thought this could be smart casual if need be, but I guess I’m a little more dressed up than I thought. I decided to go with pearl earrings and to wear my honey-blonde hair in a high bun. Then, I take a look around the room and can tell there were mixed messages on what the dress code was. Some men came in suits, others in jeans. Some women dressed up while others are just wearing leggings. One woman is barely wearing anything at all. For us being the future policymakers of the world (snort!), she sure shows a lot of cleavage and leg.
Ugh, I groan.I’m acting like a total bitch today.
I need to relax. Be happy. So many people would love to be here and have this opportunity.
But I’m here because I am running away.
“Hey there,” I hear ahusky voicebehind me at the buffet table. I turn around. “Mind if I slip by you? Need some milk for my tea.”
I turn to face a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a three-piece suit and huge Union Jack cufflinks on his sleeves. The image of this large man with a tiny teacup in his hands is laughable—he looks like a gentle giant.
Brits and their tea, I think to myself.
“Sure,” I say, smiling as best I can. Quickly grabbing my embarrassingly full plate of piled-up finger sandwiches, I move to the side and give the man enough room so he can serve himself some milk.
He smiles back and gives me a not-so-subtle onceover.
Really?
He has short brown hair and brown eyes that shine with mischief. He’s handsome, that’s for sure, but definitely not a Greek god, even though he seems to have the confidence of one.
“American?” He smiles, lifting an eyebrow.
“New Yorker,” I reply without elaborating—no need to go into family background or history, thank you very much. Genuinely wanting to be left alone to my own bitter devices, I do my best not to engage in conversation and turn away as I shamefully add another sandwich to my plate.
He pours a splash of milk into his tea and turns to face me.
“Oliver James,” he says, sticking out his right hand. I reach out and shake it.
Never trust a man with two first names.
“Penélope Márquez. Or Penny, for short.”
“That doesn’t sound American.” He frowns, confused.
“That’s because it’s not. It’s Spanish.” I don’t feel like explaining further.
